“No,” Clay snapped curtly. “It was a Jayhawk. What the fuck difference does it make?”
Eric’s lips tightened. The federal agent had the foresight of a rhinoceros. “The helicopter they flew off with five days ago was a Bell Huey. Which means they are using a different machine, which means someone is arming them, which means they have supporters.” He paused, cocking his head to the side. “Could they have acquired it through their contacts in HQ1 or 2?”
A thoughtful pause hummed down the line.
“It’s doubtful,” the fed finally said, the earlier curtness absent from his tone. “Too much red tape. With the current allegations surrounding them, loaning them a twenty-five-million-dollar bird would be career suicide for anyone with access to such an aircraft.”
Exactly what Eric had been afraid of. “Which means they have some very well-heeled benefactors.”
Silence strummed down the line.
Eric glanced at the red dot on the laptop screen. It was traveling south by east. “Mackenzie was there?”
“Yeah. Along with Winters, Simcosky, and some Indian dude.”
Indian . . . ?
Eric’s fingers tensed around the plastic casing of his phone. It wasn’t possible . . . no . . . it couldn’t be . . . there was no way those two factions could have linked up . . .
Except . . . a Jayhawk cost a pretty pound, and Mackenzie didn’t have that kind of cash or influence. On the other hand, those Goddamn interfering, basket-weaving—
He broke the thought off and took a careful calming breath. He almost asked the fed which kind of Indian had been with Mackenzie—a Native American or someone from New Delhi—but he hauled the question back before voicing it.
It would be a mistake to appear too interested in that question. A big mistake.
A couple of deep breaths later and he managed to force his unease aside. He was being foolish, jumping to conclusions. The addition of an Indian to their team, whether native or imported, was purely coincidence. Besides, according to the dossier they had on Kait Winchester, her father had been full Arapaho and her brother, Aiden, was the spitting image of their father. He relaxed. Of course Kait Winchester would recruit her brother to assist them. No doubt he’d been the Indian operative mentioned.
Nothing to get all wrung out over.
“My untrusting sis had the boys change clothes before hopping aboard the chopper,” Purcell said after a minute. “She brought a complete change for each of them, right down to their tighty whities.” He laughed, but an ugly shadow dampened the humor. “Ain’t she in for a surprise? You got the trace on her brats?”
Eric’s eyebrows bunched in distaste. The woman was his sister. The boys he’d so callously dismissed, his nephews. Didn’t he have even a modicum of regret?
“Is the tracer activated?” Purcell’s voice sharpened, but it wasn’t in repentance. Instead, anticipation thickened the raspy vowels.
“It’s active. We’re tracking them now,” Eric said.
“I want to know when it’s done.”
“Of course.” Eric jabbed the End Call button and tossed the phone on the table.
It had been quite clear from the beginning that Clay Purcell’s feelings for his sister were far from brotherly—rather, they verged on sociopathic.
But then according to the info he’d collected on the pair, the two weren’t actually siblings. They were the product of a blended family, courtesy of the marriage between Purcell’s father and Amy Chastain’s mother.
Still, the two had been raised as brother and sister from the age of seven—on Purcell’s part anyway, Amy Chastain had been a couple of years younger—but the point was, they’d been raised as family.
Purcell had been best man at John and Amy Chastain’s wedding. He was the godparent to their oldest child. How the bloody hell could the bastard play best man and best friend to John Chastain only to gut him in an airport closet? Or sign on as Brendan Chastain’s godfather, only to orchestrate the child’s murder?
Eric shook his head, staring at the red dot as it headed toward the Cascade mountain range. They’d never intended to extend their partnership with their FBI liaison after the hijacking. Agent Chastain’s death and the SEALs’ interference had bought Purcell a few additional months.
But once the SEALs were neutralized, it would be his pleasure to make sure the bastard didn’t waste any more of the planet’s resources.
If ever a man needed killing, it was that sociopathic, disloyal, two-faced weasel.
* * *
Chapter Eight
* * *