Page 64 of No Hope of Rescue

I nod. And then I realize what he’s doing. Ignoring orders.

He looks at me. “Do you know anyone else with a helicopter?”

΅

The words “target on my back” has new meaning when I step outside. The sun is so brilliant, casting flashes of glitter on the snow, that it makes me squint. With my heart hammering in my chest, I wave to whomever is out there so they see us moving into the main house.

Kelly is up making sandwiches for everyone, and if we didn’t know there was a sniper in the forest within a bullet’s range, all would seem normal.

The wait for Carter is surreal. The twenty minutes it takes him to show up feels like hours. The remaining brothers talk about losing the grant. The truth is, we had no pilot currently staffed and the funds were for capital purchases only. Brock wouldn’t put himself down as a pilot and it cost us the bid.

Despite all that, he’s now going to fly the Bell.

Shit.

A Jeep finally crunches in the driveway, I peek out the window. “It’s Carter.”

Ross turns to everyone. “No one is to leave, and we mean it. We’re in the middle of a federal investigation, and you are under orders to shelter here.”

“But you two are going?”

Ross glances at me. “We’re following orders too. We’re right behind Brock.”

I make my text to our next contact, but it’s not Agent Trent.

The door is locked now, and Carter has to knock. In the early afternoon, stoop is in shadow, which will partially hide our exit. I texted Carter to bring up the trash can to the porch and to make it seem like an afterthought. As Kelly opens the door, Ross and I duck, hidden by the trash barrel, and scramble around the corner, deep in shadow, pressed up against the back of the house.

The trail down the back of the property dumps out onto State Highway 17.

Not waiting a beat, we rush down the embankment, and the house itself hides us from the sniper’s line of sight. I’m right behind Ross, but he’s like a bulldozer charging down the mountain.

In ten minutes or so, I see asphalt through the evergreens. In two more minutes, we’re panting, bent over, hands on knees first, then waists, dropping when we see a Jeep approaching.

It slides to a stop, and a young woman leans over, blonde, beautiful, but with a grim smile on her face. “You two need a ride?”

“Hannah McIntyre, meet Ross Colton,” I say by way of hasty introductions as we hoist ourselves into the cab. I don’t think the door fully closes and we’re off again. Hannah and her partner, Killian Devereaux are part of McIntyre Search and Rescue and are based out of Bryce.

The ride to the small private airport takes about half an hour. I’m counting minutes in my head. We are now eighty behind Brock—nearly an hour and a half.

He could have crashed. Could be shot. Dead. I push thoughts like these, and more, from my mind and focus on breathing.

Hannah drives fast, trees blurring in the background. She broke her ankle a while ago and still keeps it wrapped. You’d never know, the way she’s tearing up the road. We come up to the gate, but it’s already open and the helicopter is revved, the blades just starting to spin.

Killian Devereaux, a huge guy with dark hair and a charcoal gray flannel shirt and denim pants, jumps from the pilot’s seat as we dash from the jeep to the helicopter. He thrusts headphones into Ross’s hands.

“Here you go, man,” he says. “Treat her well.”

This could be the company we lost the grant to. It doesn’t matter. In SAR work, everyone comes when called. When I reached out, it took Killian all of a minute to say yes—with no questions asked. I’ve only met the couple at first responder table-top trainings offered throughout the state, and Carter has worked with them some, but they are exactly who you want to have your back.

This is trust.

I climb up into the cockpit, strap in as Ross settles, and slip on the headgear.

In two minutes, we’re airborne. It’s all I can do to look down and watch Killian slip an arm around Hannah’s waist as they stand and wave good-bye. My heart tugs, beats, adjusts, reconciling fear, hope, joy, and uncertainty. Fuck. I grab the grips on either side of the seat to keep my hands from shaking.

We jettison into the air at rocket speed and with the nose down at full throttle, it’s clear Ross is trying to make up for lost time.

“Doesn’t that burn fuel?”