“Nothing,” Coulson said, satisfaction thick in his voice. “They got absolutely nothing. I shut the facility down last night. Took the generator with me when I left. Three of my crew stayed behind to grab the research and rig the lab. Those bastards didn’t have a chance to take anything before the building blew.”
Eric slumped, his heart rate settling. This was news. Good news. “You have the prototype?”
“I do. It’s been rerouted to our friends at Dynamic Solutions. Link’s putting together a new team. One that won’t have a problem with the device’s . . . repurposing.”
“What about those damn SEALs? I don’t suppose the blast took care of that problem.” But there wasn’t much hope in his voice because Coulson would have led with that news.
“No such luck,” Coulson said.
“What about your team at San Jose?” Eric asked slowly, although there was little doubt the scientists were dead. Coulson wouldn’t have accepted anything less.
“The bastards produced the prototype, but they refused to accept the repurposing, so I gave them all pink slips,” Coulson said, a hint of gloating in his voice.
As though the deaths of six of the world’s top minds were something to celebrate. Eric forced back a wave of repugnance. In war, one allied oneself with men who served the greater goal—regardless of whether one liked or respected them. As a child, it was the first lesson he’d learned at his parents’ table.
“So we’re still on schedule?” Eric asked, relaxing. This had to be one of the few times a Shadow Mountain attack hadn’t set them back by months, if not years.
“We are.”
“Are you certain Mackenzie and his men were with them?” Eric asked.
How would they have even connected? Those damn Indians were secretive as hell.
“Positive. They were caught on the cameras.” Coulson laughed, that earlier hint of gloating back in his voice. “They scrambled the regular camera feeds. But those new cameras Link sent us worked perfectly. Not even a twitch in the broadcast. Those bastards, all of them, were plain as day.” He paused, and for the first time, a disgruntled tone entered his voice. “Too bad they didn’t arrive a bit later. Like when the place went boom.”
Eric rolled his eyes. Of course the bloody sod would go and blow up a perfectly good building. He was far too explosives happy in Eric’s opinion.
“Well, we know who Mackenzie and his crew have hooked up with now,” Eric said.
That at least was something.
And then it occurred to him what else they knew. He froze, pure exhilaration flashing through him.
“Amy Chastain and her children were picked up by a helicopter. In light of this new information, we can assume Shadow Mountain provided that chopper, along with a safe haven,” Eric said, his brows knitting.
They’d undoubtedly provided the ground crew as well, which explained why his contractors had been defeated so easily. The SEALs were bad enough. But bloody hell, once you factored in those damnable Shadow Mountain warriors, the odds increased a billionfold against . . . well, anyone.
“That would be a fair assumption, considering that the SEALs were working with them last night,” Coulson agreed. Judging by his satisfaction, he knew exactly where Eric was going with this.
“And since the Chastain boys were broadcasting right up until they reached Mount McKinley—”
“We finally know where their fucking lair is. We’ve got the bastards,” Coulson finished.
Well, not exactly, Eric allowed. It could be they’d found something to block the signal up there in Alaska—as Link had suggested—and then continued on their merry way. But Eric’s instincts whispered otherwise.
The signal had disappeared at the base of Mount McKinley. The activist group called themselves Shadow Mountain. Not to mention if the boys had been secreted away inside a bloody mountain, the signal would be interrupted.
All signs pointed to Mount McKinley as the base camp for those annoying, interfering bastards—as Coulson liked to call them.
Which meant they finally had a location to target.
A smile bloomed. As it turned out, Mackenzie had done them an immense favor, one worthy of a Hallmark card—if they made one for such an occasion—he’d given them the means to kill two enemies with one missile.
Rawls anchored a limp Faith against his right side as he pressed his palm to the scanner next to his quarters. Faith leaned against him without protest, apparently so tired she could barely keep her eyes open, or her body upright. He was familiar with the effects of a post-adrenaline crash, so he knew with certainty that wasn’t what she was experiencing. At least not completely. Sure, some of her exhaustion could be contributed to the recent mission—but not all of it.