Page 17 of High Intensity

She straightens her back. “I have snowshoes.”

“I’ll mention it to Jonas,” I offer.

She nods and her eyes drift off to some place unseen. We sit lost in our own thoughts for a bit, but I’m the one to break the silence when I remember a promise I made this morning.

“By the way, sorry I didn’t end up doing your driveway as promised. Were you able to find your shovel?”

“I did, and as I told you this morning I would, I managed fine doing it myself.”

The clearing of a throat has me turn my attention to the door where Dan is standing, his eyes narrowed on me. I’m guessing he caught some of that exchange and has some thoughts on the subject, but to his credit, he keeps them to himself.

“I’m gonna stay here with Sloane,” he announces. “You guys should go home.”

“Then how are you gonna get back?” I ask him.

“I’ll figure it out.”

“Why don’t you take my truck,” I offer, fishing the keys from my pocket and tossing them at him. “I’ll catch a ride with Jillian.”

Dan’s head snaps around to check on Jillian, who is looking at me, a smirk tugging at her pretty mouth.

“Sure, I’ll give you a ride, cowboy.”

Six

Wolff

Almost thirty-six hours since that plane disappeared off the radar.

The mood turns more somber with every passing hour. Chances any of the seven occupants have survived not only the crash, but the frigid temperatures are virtually nonexistent.

It doesn’t help we’ve basically been sitting on our asses, waiting for even the slightest of indications of where to start looking. Glancing around me, I can tell I’m not the only one it’s getting to.

JD, who drove out here with me this morning, has whittled that hunk of wood he’s been working on to not much more than a sliver, and Dan is pacing like a caged tiger. After apparently spending a good chunk of the night in the hospital with Aspen before she was released, Jonas told Dan he didn’t want to see him until he’d had at least eight hours of sleep.

Sully and Jackson, Jonas’s stepson, are the only two on our team actively doing something. Sully operates the Matrice, our drone, and he and Jackson are scrutinizing the videofeed coming in. Jackson has a sniper’s eye and can detect irregularities at great distances.

I get up to stretch my legs and walk out of the shelter we set up. It’s a clear day with stark blue skies, but at this time of year that generally means brisk temperatures. It’s supposed to get a little warmer, but I’m not sure that’ll do much for those poor people out there.

I walk up to one of the two fire drums we set up out here, and warm my hands on the radiating heat as I take in the surroundings. It’s pretty country up here, the crisp white snow covering the dark pines you see most at these elevations. Only the steady hum of the generator outside the shelter disturbs the silence.

Hard to believe this pristine, picturesque landscape hides the ravaged fuselage and victims of a plane crash.

“Anything?”

I watch Sheriff Junior Ewing’s approach. He’s been here since yesterday, coordinating efforts and calling in resources for the aerial search. I can see the strain on his face. Responsibility weighs heavy, and I’m glad I don’t have his job.

“Nothing yet,” I share.

He sidles up next to me and shoves his hands toward the heat.

“It’s not bad enough I have the National Transportation Safety Board sending in a team and having nothing to show them,” he grumbles, “but families of the victims are blowing up my phone, and now I hear from my boys that the press started arriving in town. Everyone is fucking pushing for answers and I have nothing to give them.”

For lack of anything constructive to say, I grunt sympathetically.

The rumble of an engine has both of us turn our heads toward the trail.

“It’s Bo,” I share when I catch sight of his truck pulling up to the camp.

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