Chilled (Bone Secrets, #2)(31)

“They’re gonna get blown out of the sky.”

“Are you sure that was Liam?” Reid’s forehead creased as he tried to comprehend the airman’s foolishness.

“I know it was.” The two men had waved directly at Patrick before flying into the Cascades. “That was his brother’s helicopter. We’ve used him before on searches.” Patrick had used Liam’s brother as little as possible. Tyrone had a nasty habit of taking unnecessary risks. Both brothers were brash pilots, but Liam exercised a little control. Liam knew if he wanted to continue flying the expensive, taxpayer-purchased birds, then he had to know when to pull back.

Patrick took a sip of rapidly cooling coffee and wondered what Liam’s commander would say about this stupid stunt. Patrick glanced at the crowd of media, speculating who would be the first to identify the helicopter and owner and then get the information on the air. One night had doubled the size of the crowd, and they were getting arrogant in their questioning. Patrick had held a brief press conference at seven o’clock last night, deliberately after the early evening news, and given as little information as possible.

He rubbed at his eyes. Three hours of sleep was taking its toll. So was the silence from his hasty team.

They’re a smart crew. No one knows the outdoors better.

But why had Alex Kinton gone to so much trouble to tag along with the team?

The question was giving Patrick a headache.

Paul Whittenhall strode up. The marshal had retreated to a hotel room for the night, and had now reappeared with two men outfitted for the wilderness. Patrick recognized one as the younger agent from yesterday.

“Who was in that helicopter? Did you finally get one off the ground? Have you heard from your team?” Whittenhall stopped directly in front of Patrick, rolling out his list of questions. Patrick coolly stared him down.

“That wasn’t one of my copters. Probably a media copter. You left strict instructions that you were to be notified when I heard from my team, so obviously I haven’t heard from them.” He struggled to keep his tone calm. He nodded at the two men behind Whittenhall. “Where are they going?”

“I’m sending in my own team. I’ve got a marshal and a felon out there. I want people with experience on the site.”

Patrick bristled. “You’re only sending two men? You need at least one more to go out in shit like this. I’ll find another—”

“No others. These guys know what they’re doing.”

Patrick watched the younger marshal’s Adam’s apple bob. His partner looked competent and prepared, but this guy looked scared to death. The agent had no idea what the f*ck he was walking into. He’d probably never taken a sunny day hike in an open field.

“I can’t let you send—” Patrick started.

“You can’t stop me.” Whittenhall turned his back on Patrick to instruct his team. Patrick opened his mouth then clamped it shut. He’d said his piece and Whittenhall rejected his offer. Reid had witnessed it. If Whittenhall came begging for help later, Patrick wasn’t going to waste taxpayer money on this jerk’s screwup.

“You’re on your own,” he muttered at the big man’s back. The young marshal’s eyes briefly widened at Patrick’s words, but Whittenhall ignored him.

Patrick put some distance between himself and the marshals. He needed breathing room. Reid caught up with him as he stopped at a sheltered table with coffee urns, scones, and doughnuts where Patrick warmed up his drink.

“Why’s he need to send in a team?” Reid complained. “We don’t even know where that plane went down. His guys are gonna be cut off from communication just like ours. It’s stupid to have two groups wandering around blind out there.”

Patrick nodded. His cell buzzed against his waist, and he glanced at the screen. He shot a look at Whittenhall, but he was deep into instructions with his own men. Patrick cocked his head at Reid, and they stepped around to the other side of the table.

“It’s Ryan,” he told Reid and spoke into his cell. “Collins.”

The connection was horrid.

“…found plane…coordinates…all different…” Ryan rattled off several sets of numbers that made no sense to Patrick as he scribbled them down on a napkin he’d snagged from under the doughnuts.

“Did you say you don’t know which coordinates are accurate?”

“…GPS…f*cked up…all different…one of them should be right…three dead but almost…”

Patrick swore. “Who’s dead?”

“…can’t find…”

“Is everyone all right?”

“…sick…almost didn’t make it…”

“Ryan. The agent who’s with you. Kinton. He’s not a US marshal. He lied. No one sent him out there.”

“…what? Kinton, what?” The crackling through the cell made Ryan’s voice nearly indecipherable.

“Kinton’s not a marshal. We don’t know why he insisted on going with you.”

The line went silent. Patrick looked at his screen as it flashed the length of the short call. How much had Ryan understood? He tried to call the man back. No luck.

Patrick studied the napkin, disappointment swirling in his chest. If these were coordinates, they were crap. They were all over the place and missing numbers. Ryan was the best navigator he knew. The call must have dropped half of what he’d said.