Alex stopped in the snow. “Do you think Besand was supposed to escape during this particular transfer?”
Matt stopped beside him and their gazes locked. “Are you saying he crashed that plane on purpose? And took his chances in the middle of the Cascades? No one could pull that off.”
“No. I mean escape when he landed. If he landed. Hell, do you think Linus was supposed to let him get away? Hopefully, Linus wasn’t supposed to be collateral damage in some sort of twisted escape plan set up by Whittenhall and Besand. I wouldn’t be surprised if Whittenhall had arranged for Linus to be the fall guy. All I know is someone changed the flight plan for his return flight from Medford. I know because I was waiting at the damned Hillsdale airport because I wanted to check out what kind of detail he had and watch the killer walk by in cuffs.”
“That’s sick.”
Alex shrugged. “Gives my day a purpose.”
“Who’d change the flight plan? Who could do that?”
“I’d have to check, but I think anyone could call in a change. That small a plane, flying to smaller airports, no one is going to raise an eyebrow if the flight plan is changed.”
“Except the US Marshals’ office.”
“Not if the flight plan change came from them.”
“Maybe it was changed for a different perfectly legitimate reason.”
“I called around. I couldn’t find another airport in the closest five counties where that plane was scheduled to land.”
Matt’s brows deepened. “I don’t get it. Where were they going to land? They’d be missed eventually.”
“That’s the part I don’t know. But I plan to find out. Let’s get Thomas. We should get back to the plane.” Alex grimaced. “I’m gonna catch hell for not coming directly back after those shots. They’re probably worried sick.”
An hour ticked by. With each passing minute, Brynn felt her skin grow thinner, more sensitive, attuned to every word and movement by every man in the crowded plane. She was being stretched to the limit, and it felt like the wrong words could cause her guts to spill out.
Tyrone had been talking a bit. He wasn’t confused and had a pretty clear memory of the hours leading up to the crash. Brynn took that as a good sign and gave a silent prayer of thanks. He wouldn’t move his head, claiming the slightest movement caused his vision to blur and spikes to be driven into his brain.
She understood completely.
She changed position for the hundredth time on the floor next to Tyrone as he drifted off again, wishing she could fall asleep as easily as he did. Her body was exhausted, her muscles ached, but her mind spun with the high, surging energy of the sun, worrying about Alex.
“Hey, you awake?” Liam spoke softly, ducking into the cargo bay.
“Yeah.” How could she sleep?
He lay down next to her and pulled her close, spooning her against him. The way they’d slept a million times. Brynn closed her eyes and relaxed against him, her mind’s swirling slowing a bit. The physical intimacy felt good. Right now, she needed a comforting touch.
“I would have never let you go on this rescue.” Liam’s arm around her waist tightened, his voice a harsh whisper.
“I know.” Her semi-relaxed state evaporated.
“You should’ve woken me that morning.”
“So you could’ve stopped me?” she hissed. Not now, Liam. Please not now.
“Yes.”
“It was a plane crash, Liam. People could’ve needed medical help. I know what I’m doing out here. I’m not some idiot wandering lost in the woods,” she whispered, worried that Jim and Ryan, who were sitting in the seats, could overhear.
“But last year—”
“Anyone could’ve been hit in that rockslide. I was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time.” Will he ever let that go?
“And this trip?” His question hung in the air.
This trip had definitely put her in the wrong place at the worst possible time.
“I can’t predict the future.”
“We need to talk about this, Brynn. I can’t have my wife risking her neck—”
“I’m not your wife,” she snapped.
“No. Not yet but—”
“I’m not going to be your wife, Liam.” She softened her tone but not the strength behind the words. They were absolutely true. She didn’t have any doubts about her decision.
He lay silent.
“I’m sorry, Liam. I’ve told you before I don’t want to marry you. And now…things have been so wrong between us for so long. I can’t give up what I do. And you shouldn’t ask it of me. I feel like—”
“I love you, Brynn.”
Her heart stopped midbeat. Not fair. “I love you too, Liam, but not the way I should.”
“How do you mean?”
He knew the answer. She heard it in his voice, but he’d asked the question anyway. She was finished with this conversation.
“I want you to move the rest of your things from the house, Liam. You know as well as I that we’ve been finished for a long time. You’re not coming back.”
His arm sank heavily on her side as she heard him exhale and felt him press his face into her hair. She squeezed her eyes shut, feeling moisture prick at her lids.
He was silent for a long minute, not moving. His breathing heavy but even.
Brynn waited.
“OK,” he spoke slowly. “But first let’s get Tyrone out of these damned woods.”
Frustration welled up in her throat. He’d said “OK” to mollify her and simply put the inevitable off. Again.
Why doesn’t he understand?
Kiana barked, and Brynn jolted out of Liam’s arms, propping herself up on one arm to see the door. Ryan and Jim stood abruptly, weapons drawn, moving in the direction of the entry. Ryan was having problems focusing, and he moved slower than Jim. He shouldn’t be holding a gun.
“Jim? It’s Alex. We’re coming in.”
Brynn’s arm buckled and she collapsed to the floor on her back, bringing her hands up to press on her eyes. “Thank God. Oh, thank God. He’s OK.”
Beside her, Liam sucked in a sharp breath at her words.
A chorus of greetings rose around Kiana’s enthusiastic barks. Shaking off Liam’s restraining hand, Brynn pushed up from the cargo area and stood, leaning one hand on the wall for balance.
A snowy figure pulled open the door. Steel-gray eyes locked with hers.
Every cell in her body smiled along with her lips. The moisture that had pricked at her eyes earlier spilled over, and she wiped awkwardly at her cheeks, her gaze never leaving his. The men slapped Alex on the back. Brynn saw Jim take a hard look in her direction. She didn’t care. Let him think whatever the hell he wanted.
Thomas stepped in behind Alex, and she gasped as a third snowy figure appeared behind Thomas. Her heart stopped as she saw Jim and Ryan whip their weapons back out.
Alex threw up his arms, blocking their view of the other man. “Hang on! It’s OK!”
Alex turned, gestured the other man in, and put an arm around his shoulders as he addressed the team. “He’s got more protein bars.”
They all cheered.
Staring out the window of the county’s RV, Sheriff Patrick Collins couldn’t stop thinking about his earlier phone call from Kinton. Once he’d gotten over the relief and shock of finally hearing from his team, new concerns set in. Should he share the information with the deputies who’d been running the base camp for four days?
The accusation was too sensitive. What if Kinton was wrong?
Guilt was already sitting heavily on his shoulders about keeping his men in the dark about the new status of the team and airplane. He felt like he was the protective patriarch of a huge family, firmly keeping the closet doors closed. He’d already talked privately with the families whose men were on that plane. They’d deserved to know the truth as soon as he’d found out.
For now, he’d have to keep his mouth shut around any other law enforcement.
Especially Paul Whittenhall.
It was just a matter of sitting tight until the weather cleared and he could get some air support into the woods. According to Kinton, at least one man would need to be airlifted out. Tyrone Gentry. One good thing had come out of this clusterfuck. Patrick should’ve known the indestructible Gentry boys would land on their feet. He let a broad smile cross his face, drawing a startled look from the deputy manning the radio in the RV. Who other than the Gentrys would survive a helicopter crash in the damned wilderness?
Now Patrick knew where the plane was. Kinton had passed on what the team had agreed were accurate GPS readings. Patrick studied the map on the wall of the base camp’s RV. Physical comforts had improved since the initial days of the search, but the number of people was still increasing. A lot of the people were gawkers, not press members and not law enforcement. Just people coming out of the woodwork because of the television coverage. They wanted to be where the action was. Patrick hoped they were getting a good dose of boredom and frozen toes. Nothing exciting about this rescue. Simply the waiting and waiting game. Media numbers were still going up. One of his men had told him the story had gone international.
Especially when the marshals had publicly confirmed Darrin Besand’s name.
Patrick placed a finger on the forest service map hanging on his wall, touching the team’s location and feeling like he was hiding a classified secret. He studied the surrounding terrain. They weren’t camped too far from another river. The water worked its way down the mountain in a serpentine fashion, just like the one the team had originally crossed. The mountain rivers were at their fullest. There’d been flooding in the valleys as the heavy rains and melting snow flowed into the mountain streams and the streams emptied into the valley’s wider rivers. He’d heard the governor was surveying via helicopter parts of the flat coastal counties that’d been hit hard with the flooding.
Too bad the weather in the Cascades was keeping his helicopters grounded.
Damn it!
He’d forgotten to tell Kinton about the marshal’s team. Probably didn’t matter. The chances that those two teams were going to cross paths were slim to none. Patrick bit firmly on the inside of his cheek, thoroughly annoyed with his lapse. The news of the Gentrys had completely distracted him. The first call he’d made after Kinton’s had been to Liam Gentry’s mama. She hadn’t been one bit surprised to hear her boys had survived, claimed Tyrone and Liam each had nine lives and had only used up six. Patrick had hung up his phone, shaking his head at the woman’s faith and calm. He could use some of that.
But for right now Patrick had a new mission.
He needed to look for dirt on Whittenhall. Patrick gazed at the snow falling on the media corral. He didn’t see the woman he was looking for, but he was confident she’d make an appearance in time for the noon broadcast. He scanned for that blowhard Whittenhall, spotting one of his flunkies, but no Whittenhall. The marshal would crawl out of the woodwork around noon too. He never passed up a chance to get his mug on-screen.
Could Kinton’s story and implications be accurate? Too many things rang true for Patrick to doubt it, including his gut reaction to Whittenhall every time they crossed paths.
Patrick couldn’t wait until noon to get the wheels in motion. Impatient, he pulled out his cell and smiled as he pictured the shock on Regan Simmons’s face when she realized he was calling her.
When their conversation was over, he triple-checked the weather update.
Tomorrow morning. That was their window. The weather forecasters said it’d be a short one. Maybe four hours. But that should be enough time to get a couple of air force rescue choppers up there. Those chopper pilots were pretty stubborn. If they had a chance to get the team out they would push it with all they had. Especially when he told them one of their own was up there.
Hopefully, Regan Simmons was as stubborn and persistent. She’d leaped at the secret lead Collins had offered and decided to skip her live noon television report, letting a stunned junior reporter handle it. She’d appeared at the door to his trailer within two minutes of his request to chat. He’d sent the deputy manning the radio in the trailer on some useless errand. The man had left, raising his brow at the blonde woman impatiently tapping her toe next to the sheriff.
Regan had bargained fiercely. “If I’m going to do this task for you, then I want an update on that team.”
“I don’t have anything to tell you.”
“Bullshit. This lead on Paul Whittenhall didn’t come out of your head. You’ve talked to someone out there who’s found something in that plane crash to make them suspicious.”
Patrick had been pleasantly surprised. There was a sharp brain under that perfect hair.
“Yes. I’ve talked to them. They’re all doing fine. I can’t tell you anything else.”
Lake Tahoe–blue eyes had glared at him. “Not good enough. I’m not putting my job on the line by snooping into the history of one of the most powerful men in the state. I need a damned good reason to do this.”
Patrick had clenched his back teeth. “I can’t give you specifics. But if this story turns out the way I expect it’s going to, you’re going to be the most popular woman in Portland broadcasting.”
Regan had held his gaze, waiting for more.
He’d blown out an exasperated breath. “You get fifteen minutes of solo access to the team when they get back.”
“Done.” Her eyes had gleamed and she’d stuck out a hand. Patrick had reluctantly shaken it, feeling like he’d been deftly manipulated.
She’d immediately pulled out a BlackBerry and started punching buttons. “I had a related tip two months ago but I kept running into walls at every turn.”
“What?” Patrick had blinked.
“This is more specific. This is going to get me somewhere.”
“Who? Who told you about this before?”
She’d shaken her head and batted innocent eyes at him. “I can’t reveal my sources.” She’d made tracks for her car, her cell phone already at her ear, and had promised him an update in two hours.
He glanced at his watch for the fiftieth time. The woman had been gone for fifteen minutes.
A knock on the RV door brought him out of his musing. He pushed it open and immediately wished he hadn’t. Paul Whittenhall had tromped up the steps and now was brushing the snow off his sleeves to melt on Patrick’s dry floor. Patrick had just watched him on the noon news, answering reporters’ questions for sixty seconds and saying exactly nothing. Whittenhall was a pro at blowing hot air.
“Any news?” Whittenhall barked.
Patrick shook his head. “All quiet. Heard from your team?”
“No.”
The men silently measured each other. Each knowing the other wasn’t being totally truthful.
“We’re supposed to get a break in the storm tomorrow morning,” Patrick offered.
“I’d heard that. A Pave Hawk going in?”
Patrick nodded. “Two.”
“Good.” Whittenhall looked anything but happy. Beneath his eyes were deep shadows and his skin had developed a sallow color. He was restless. He paced and ran his hands over Patrick’s radio equipment and maps.
Through enlightened eyes, Patrick watched the marshal. Now that he had an inkling of what he was involved in, the nervous energy made more sense. Whittenhall had been a bundle of twitchy and fidgety movements since Patrick first met him.
If Kinton was right, Whittenhall had every reason to be anxious.
Whittenhall was scum. The worst kind. Someone who’d abused his position and power for his personal gain. And possibly tried to help a murderer walk.
Patrick wanted to be there when the arrogant man toppled.
Paul Whittenhall slammed the RV door as he stepped down the metal stairs.
Goddamn it.
He couldn’t stand the pretentious look that’d been in the sheriff’s eyes. Collins knew something but wasn’t sharing. Paul’s stomach clenched, and he reached in his pocket for his antacid roll. His third roll of the day.
What does Collins know? What the fuck is going on in that forest?
He hadn’t heard from his team. Gary had sworn not to tell Boyles the secondary mission objective, but now it didn’t matter.
That morning one of his marshals had casually mentioned that Matt Boyles had been in Kinton’s wedding years before.
Shit. He’d stupidly sent Kinton’s best friend in to kill him.
That would never work. Boyles was going to balk when it came to taking out Kinton, no matter how Gary spun the situation. He’d told Gary to play up Kinton’s nervous breakdown to Boyles. That was the rumor Paul had fed into the marshals’ gossip train. In the right ears in the office, he’d planted the story that Kinton was suicidal, seeing a psychiatrist, and heavily medicated.
Every agent remembered Kinton’s meltdown in his office. Jumping to the assumption that he was mentally unbalanced shouldn’t take too much effort.