Chilled (A Bone Secrets Novel) (4 page)

The cockpit had broken off in one big awkward piece along with the missing wing and engine. The rough edges looked like a giant child had ripped it from the rest of the plane in a fit of temper.

The gun in his right hand, he reached with his left to touch the sheared metal edges and pain shot from his shoulder to his
brain. He rotated the shoulder very slowly. Nothing seemed broken and there’d been no blood or gash. Maybe he’d pulled a muscle or tendon.

He could see the backs of the pilots’ heads. Both were still in their seats. Immobile. The copilot sat in a pool of blood that had spilled onto the floor below him. Stepping closer, Darrin saw his left thigh had been sliced open. He’d bled out. Probably in under two or three minutes.

Darrin wondered if the copilot had known he was dying. Had he tried to stop the bleeding knowing he only had minutes to live before his heart pumped all his blood onto the floor? His gaze went to the copilot’s hands. Spotless. No blood. He hadn’t applied pressure to his leg. He must have been unconscious as his life spilled out.

A pity.

The other pilot breathed deep, a gurgling rattle erupting from his chest. Darrin whirled in his direction, heart throbbing, gun pointed at the man’s head. The pilot’s eyes met his. There was no fear.

“Asshole,” said the pilot.

Darrin’s lips turned up on one side. The man was half-dead but still had the strength to mouth off. He remembered meeting the pilot’s gaze as he’d boarded the plane. As expected, the pilot had glared with disdain and then distinctly told the copilot how he hated doing these convict flights for the government. As the marshal had double-checked his cuffs, Darrin had grinned impudently at the pilot, flashing his straight, white teeth. The pilot had nearly hissed.

“I might be an asshole, but I’m an asshole with two good legs.” Darrin let his gaze slide down the pilot’s legs to where they intertwined with metal and wire. The man’s hands were
bloody, and Darrin eyed the gory mess of his metallic bindings where the pilot had desperately tried to free his legs. He relaxed and holstered his gun. The pilot was an interesting shade of gray, and Darrin wondered how he’d mustered up the energy to cuss at him. The man was very near death.

A kind person would put the pilot out of his misery.

Darrin wasn’t kind.

“Does the radio work?”

The pilot dropped his gaze. “No. Believe me, I’ve tried,” he muttered.

“What about a locator device?”

“It’s in the tail of the plane. I can’t tell if it’s working or not.” The pilot clumsily pointed at a switch and breathed deep for air. “I’ve got no electrical. Normally that would be flashing if the locator was armed.”

Darrin stared at the tiny, dark LED light.
Is someone coming for me or not?

He snagged the two pilots’ duffel bags and took a close look around the remains of the cockpit, searching for anything useful for survival until help came. The copilot was wearing a wonderfully thick coat. One of those cowboy-looking suede coats with the lamb’s wool lining. He set down the bags and wrestled the copilot out of the coat. Rigor was just settling in his limbs.

“Fuck you.” The pilot spit the words.

Darrin kept his back to the man as he slipped on the copilot’s coat. Strangely, it was still the tiniest bit warm from the dead man’s evaporated body heat. Good coat. He turned back to the dying man and made a show of modeling the coat, turning up the collar, and tucking his hands in the pockets.

If looks could kill, Darrin would be prime rib. Well done.

Darrin scooped up the bags with one hand and gave the pilot a painful salute. “Later, dude.”

He trudged back to the other piece of the plane, an uncontrollable smile his face.

Blasted, fucking media.

Sheriff Patrick Collins had established a perimeter just in time to keep out the wildlife.

Satellite trucks, cameras, microphones. How’d the word about the plane crash get out so fast? He spotted a few reporters writing down the license plate numbers of his hasty team members’ vehicles and cursed. He hadn’t thought of covering them. Wasn’t like his team members’ names were any big secret, but the media had a fascination with heroic sacrifice and his team was definitely sacrificing today. He glanced at the dark gray sky and caught a giant drop of icy rain in his eye.

At least he could sit in his truck. His team had to be freezing their asses off. And probably for nothing. Patrick had commanded two other remote plane crash rescues that had turned into recovery missions. One of the planes had ended up in a lake. Upside down and intact. The two bodies had still been buckled in their seats.

He prayed for better results this time.

“Any word?” Patrick asked as Deputy Tim Reid stopped beside him. The deputy was enjoying the excitement; his wide baby face lit up with adrenaline. Reid shook his head and his eyes dimmed a degree. Patrick knew the deputy would have immediately mentioned if the team had called in, but he couldn’t stop from asking anyway. The waiting was feeding the growing rock in his stomach. The last contact had been two hours ago. Jim had called in with their coordinates and asked for an updated
weather report. Patrick told him to expect snow or ice, just like they’d known when they’d started their mission. The call had been scratchy, fading in and out. With the spotty to nonexistent cell and radio coverage in the Cascades, he might not hear from his team again until they were headed back and nearly to the base camp. Their radios would be useless to contact the base. They could probably talk to each other, but the immense peaks and deep valleys would ruin any outside contact.

On how many missions had he anxiously waited and waited for word from a team? Patrick missed being out with the group, deep in the action, the buzz of the search in his veins, feeling like he was
doing
something. Now he was the brain and mouthpiece for Madison County SAR. And he was good at it.

But he missed being in on the battle.

He looked at his maps for the millionth time, guessing where the team might be at that second. Depended on terrain. He wouldn’t be a bit surprised to hear they’d found mudslides or a washed-out trail. And then there were the water crossings. He’d almost suggested Brynn sit this rescue out, but she would have fried his ass for breakfast if he’d said it.

He’d never met anyone so stubborn. Brynn had legitimate, horrifying water fears but didn’t let them slow her down.

Another vehicle pulled into the clearing and Patrick sighed, glancing at the black Suburban. Two men stepped out, and he did a double take at the long overcoats and suits. Definitely not reporters.

Federal marshals?

His theory was confirmed as the taller man held out his ID to a deputy posted at the perimeter. The deputy turned and pointed at Patrick. The two men tracked toward him, swerving around puddles. The second popped out an umbrella that he
held over both their heads. He was the younger of the two men. The first and obviously senior agent was silver haired. As he drew closer, Patrick noticed he didn’t have the facial lines of an older man. Patrick revised his mental age estimate of the agent down ten years, closer to his own fifty, maybe even younger. The man lifted his ID as he approached, meeting Patrick’s gaze with razor-sharp intensity. His eyes were pale blue, nearly colorless. Patrick couldn’t look away.

“Paul Whittenhall. I’m with the United States Marshals, and this is Deputy Marshal Stewart. That’s my plane out there. You find it yet?”

Patrick grimaced at the marshal’s directness. This was the fast-talking, persuasive agent from the phone call. “Patrick Collins. There’s been no word on the plane.” He paused. “Good to finally meet you,” he added politely.

Whittenhall’s eyebrows lifted. “You were expecting us?”

Patrick frowned at his tone. “I assumed you’d arrive sometime today.”

The marshals exchanged a confused look.

“Who told you we were coming?” Whittenhall asked.

Collins blinked. “No one said you were coming. After we talked on the phone this morning, I expected someone from your office would show up.”

“Phone? This morning?” The sharp eyes narrowed. “You talked to someone at my office?”

“Yeah. You.” An odd sense of dread crept up Collins’s spine. “You’re Whittenhall, right? You called me and said the plane was a private lease hired to transport a prisoner back to Portland. You said it never arrived at its destination last night, and its flight path would have taken it over the Cascades at about the same point. Your plane’s description matched the description the eyewitness
gave. Until I talked to you, all I knew was we had a small plane down. You filled in the blanks.” Patrick’s speech slowed as he watched Whittenhall’s pale eyes. No recognition.

Whittenhall stiffened. Confusion and something else Patrick didn’t like crossed the agent’s face. “I didn’t talk to you.”

“Then who...who called? Someone from your office called to say there was a marshal on that plane, and he insisted that one of your men be on my hasty team.”

The other marshal muttered under his breath and pulled out a cell phone. He handed the umbrella off to his supervisor and stepped away to make a call.

Whittenhall was staring at Patrick. “You’ve got one of my agents out there? Looking for that wreck?”

Patrick nodded. “Isn’t that what you wanted?”

What the fuck is going on?
Patrick’s temper was fluctuating back and forth. Switching from anger at the abrupt marshal to anxiety for his team.

“What time was this phone call? When did your team head out?” Whittenhall snapped.

“You.someone called at the crack of dawn. The team headed out at eight o’clock this morning right after your agent got here.” Patrick forced the words out between clenched teeth. He didn’t like the growing red hue of Whittenhall’s face. Looked like he was about to blow an artery. Patrick glanced at the wet crowd of reporters. They all had pointed their noses his way. They could sense something was up. As Patrick watched, one reporter approached the deputy who’d let the two agents inside the perimeter, his digital recorder ready.

“I didn’t send any marshal, and no one from my office called you. I wasn’t informed that plane was missing
until
eight o’clock this morning. At that point, no one could tell me what had
happened. It was midmorning when I found out a search and rescue was already in gear and they were sure it was my missing plane. I immediately drove down from Portland when I confirmed the news.” Whittenhall spit the words, his face contorted with anger.

Patrick’s throat closed. “So who the fuck is out with my team?”

They’d been in the forest for five hours, and Alex was ready to go home. It had never stopped raining. He’d slipped twice, tripped over countless roots, and stepped in mud up to his ankles. So much for the new boots. An hour ago, his right leg had started to cramp. A physical reminder that he was there for only one reason. Get to the plane ASAP. Not to get distracted by a woman. Not to enjoy a chat in the rain.

There could be danger on that plane that he needed to meet face-to-face. He had to be mentally ready.

Alex’s leg was still aching, but there was no way he was gonna mention it. He wasn’t going to slow the team’s pace even if he thought he might be wasting his time. No one could have
survived that plane crash. If someone did, he was going to drown in all this fucking rain.

Kiana chose that moment to rocket back to Brynn from some point far ahead on the trail. The dog’s gorgeous fur was soaked, and her feet looked like she’d been dancing in chocolate sauce. She galloped by him, and Alex’s gaze followed her to Brynn as she greeted the dog at the end of the line.

“Good-looking dog. What is she?” he asked Ryan.

“Mostly Alaskan malamute. Brynn says her blue eyes show there’s crossbreeding somewhere in her line.”

The slight twang in Ryan’s voice made Alex think of the old television show
Hee Haw.
Ryan was an interesting blend of surfer, country cop, and polite mama’s boy. The guy seemed to genuinely like the outdoors. Always smiling, rarely griping about the rain and muck. Just like Brynn.

“Brynn usually do trips like this?”

Ryan shrugged. “We all do a couple dozen a year. Most aren’t as involved as this. Some last half a day.”

“How do you fit in a job with a crazy schedule like that?”

Ryan dropped back to walk beside Alex. Earlier the younger man had been helpful, pointing out various animal signs and identifying plants even though Alex had never asked. Alex was more than ready for a distraction.

“Well, for Thomas and Jim and me, our departments have committed us to when we’re needed. Each police department has at least one man in SAR.”

“And Brynn? She’s not a cop.” Alex knew that in his gut.

“Nah, she works for the medical examiner’s office. She’s a forensic nurse. Death investigator. Comes out to our scenes when there is a suspicious death and we need an investigator with medical knowledge. She’s good.”

“Like
CSI?”
Alex would have never connected the sunny woman with such a grisly job.

Ryan choked out a laugh. “Don’t let her hear you say that. She hates that show. No high heels for that woman.”