Page 8 of Heston
“All in good time, my chap. All in—”
“Where. Is. She?” Alex boomed. “I’ll kill you both! Bring her to me. That’s the only way you and that chicken shit errand boy you sent get to live!”
A sinister chuckle was his only answer before the connection went dead. Because that was all the caller intended, to rub salt in the cuts he’d created. Alex cocked his throwing arm behind his head, hearkening back to the day when fast-balling his cell phone into the nearest wall brought some measure of relief from the rage he’d carried then.
But today was different. He was different. At least, he was a work-in-progress, trying to be different, to be a better man. His arm lowered slowly as he held onto the only link he had with Kelsey, this untraceable burner phone and some nameless Irishman. If he could be believed, she was alive. And if she was, he and that other bastard had somehow orchestrated the entire fiasco. Which meant the Irishman was either an excellent sniper to have hit both marks like he had or that he’d employed one. Or that his cocky boss was the sniper. That he’d tracked Alex and Kelsey early this morning, that he’d planned to drop her into that precise spot along the river. That he’d purposefully put her life at further risk by letting her drown, then recovering her. Saving her. Which he wanted Alex to believe he had. That she was—somehow—still alive.
For an instant, Alex was thankful. But only because he needed to believe that this jerk would keep her alive until he achieved his goal. The temporary rush of gratitude didn’t last. Whoever the guy behind this was, he was using Kelsey to get at Alex. Alex would have to manipulate him, go along withhis demands long enough to get her back. Unwittingly, the mastermind behind her attempted murder had just given Alex what he needed. The thinnest shred of hope.
Chapter Five
The Forest Service helo couldn’t land where the pilot wanted. Too much gusting wind and snow. To reach the clearing below, Heston and Asher had to fast-rope down. While it snowed. No problem. All TEAM agents were trained in everything military, including long-distance shooting, skydiving, fast-roping, even rappelling. So stepping off the edge of a perfectly safe helicopter wasn’t unusual. The first step was a little breathtaking, but it was the simplest way to get to the northern shore of the river below.
Overall, it was a short drop. Heston flexed his knees to absorb the shock as he landed. Visibility was poor to zero. “Contreras touchdown,” he reported to the Forest Service pilot in the helo above via their shared radio communication link.
“Copy that,” came back the steady reply just as Asher dropped to all fours beside Heston.
“Splashdown,” Asher sent upward.
“Stay safe, guys. Let me know when you need a lift out of here,” the pilot advised as the helo lifted into the clouds. “You’ve got my number.”
The rotor slap had barely ended when Deck growled over the same channel, “And you’ve got my number, boys. I’ll be close by for the duration of this clusterfuck.”
“Copy that, Colonel Edison,” the Forest Service pilot replied respectfully. “Good luck finding your people, sir.”
“Thanks. Now get off this channel and let me talk to my guys.”
Heston grinned at the fierce man in the black ops tiltrotor above. “Good to hear you again, Deck. Thought you might’ve stayed in Seattle.”
“Doesn’t take me long to refuel. Comm check in sixty. Don’t be late,” was all the reply Heston received. Made him smile. Deck might sound like a troll who lived under a bridge and ate children for breakfast, but he was by far the best pilot Heston had ever flown with.
They humped onward. The temperature was fairly warm, unusual for this altitude Heston guessed. He’d spent time in Washington before, courtesy of the 2ndBattalion, 75thRanger Regiment’s combat-focused training years ago. He knew the Ranger code and he’d damned well-earned the privilege of wearing the coveted tan beret. He’d never made it to Delta, though. Stopped short of selling his soul to the Devil. His parents had never wanted him to join the Army in the first place. He figured, out of respect and love for them, he’d return home with most of his soul intact.
Weather sure sucked though. With heavy, wet snow falling, the chance of finding the Stewarts alive turned from barely possible to damned grim. Only good thing was that most of the storm remained high on the mountain peaks behind him. He took that as the slimmest sign of good luck.
Thank heavens, Decker had provided them with cold weather versions of TEAMwear, the rugged, lightweight, tactical clothing conceived by Alex and designed by Mother. Incorporated in the winter version was a wealth of pockets in both jacket and pants (always a good thing); thick but lightweight liners that wicked away excess sweat and body heat, as well as protected an agent from outside temps; and lighter-than-air, barely noticeable, built-in tactical plating. The outfits were heavier than normal military wear, but more appreciated.
There was a time a few years back when both summer and winter versions of TEAMwear had also packed a butt-load of sensors to monitor an agent’s physical status, as well as document every step of his mission via live video and audiolinks back to TEAM HQ. Those futuristic advancements didn’t last long. Scuttlebutt was that Mother threatened to quit when Alex pulled the plug on her over-the-top improvements to his concept. Alex called her bluff. Told her fine, then do it.
For the life of him, Heston wasn’t sure why Mother hadn’t taken Alex up on that offer, nor why Alex hadn’t fired her long ago. Theirs was a love/hate employer/employee relationship if ever Heston saw one. The things they said to each other could be so direct and spoken so sharply, it was like being in a knife fight if you found yourself caught between them. They were downright mean to each other. Fortunately, Mother hadn’t quit, and for now, she was working as feverishly as everyone else to locate her missing boss and his wife.
He and Asher headed due east alongside the White River to the campground where they were to meet Forest Service Rangers Bates and Wilde. They both carried two gear bags, one a heavy backpack loaded with bottled water, tasteless MREs, a change of clothes, and other necessities. The other bag was smaller, loaded with ammo, extra pistols, NVGs, blow-out kits, and other survival items.
The closer they came to the campground, the more the snow turned to rain. Another chopper, this one marked with the green and yellow United States Forest Service logo, came into view. Parked dead center of an empty clearing surrounded by spindly alpine pines, it looked like a forlorn mosquito waiting for warm weather. Hopefully that bird had brought an army of volunteers ready to search for Alex and Kelsey when it landed.
Heston radioed his USFS counterparts to let them know he and Asher had arrived.
“Roger,” a calm female voice replied. “It’s about time.”
“Yes, ma’am. Where’s Bates and Wilde? Are they here yet?”
“They’re at our Incident Command Center at the White River campground, yes, sir, but I’m in dispatch at Snoqualmie Pass. I’llturn on its perimeter lights to help you spot it. Go on in, guys. They’ll be glad to have you aboard.”
A line of soft yellow lights blossomed ahead, lining the roof, windows, and doors of a large, ruggedized RV marked in bold yellow with: Incident Command Center, ICC.
“Thank you, dispatch,” Heston told the lady at Snoqualmie, then sent a quick report to Deck. “Making contact. Will advise as needed.”
“I don’t hear from you in thirty minutes, I’m hunting you down.”
