The line halted as four sets of eyes followed the direction of Ryan’s hand pointing up into the trees. Something pale billowed and fluttered thirty feet above their heads. Alex’s feet froze in midstep. A parachute?

“Is that a parachute?” Brynn voiced his thoughts.

His Beretta instantly in hand, Alex quickly scanned their surroundings for signs of life, his heart in his throat. Nothing. All was quiet as microscopic flakes fell with silent speed. He raised his gaze again. Next to the white of the snow the parachute was yellowed and dirty. Ripped.

“It’s old,” Thomas muttered. “It’s not from our plane.”

Not from our plane.

Alex slipped his handgun back in his pocket and felt his lungs contract in regret and relief. Then pity. Who’d used the parachute? How long ago?

He concentrated on watching Brynn as she searched the ground, making a roundabout pattern that circled out from the trunk of the tree.

“I can’t see anything under all this snow,” she complained.

“Who’d it belong to?” Ryan whispered.

“Lots of people have gone missing in these woods,” Thomas said quietly. “Planes too.”

Alex couldn’t speak; he was nauseous. Had someone hung up there? Waiting for days on end? Waiting for a rescue that never came? Or had they died on impact? He glanced at Brynn. What was she thinking? She was still kicking at the snow, scowling and muttering to herself.

His ex-wife would have been near tears and frantic with shock and sympathy.

Brynn was looking for answers.

“Note the coordinates, Ryan.”

“Already done.” The deputy was scowling at his GPS. “This doesn’t seem right.”

Thomas glanced at Ryan’s screen then back at the screen of the GPS he’d pulled out. “Mine’s different. Way different.”

His forehead wrinkling, Jim studied the two units the men held out. He reached in his pocket and checked his GPS. Alex felt like a useless idiot. It was a foreign feeling.

“Mine’s different too.”

“What?” Brynn stopped and looked up in surprise. “How can that be? I could understand one unit malfunctioning, but how can we get three different readings?”

Alex blinked as suspicion crept up his spine.

“Something magnetic? Maybe there’s a meteor buried nearby.” Ryan sounded as confident as if he’d suggested fairy mischief.

“Could that cause it?” Brynn murmured. Everyone looked blank.

“I have no fucking idea what would affect them,” Jim admitted. “They get their readings from a group of several satellites. Maybe the storm’s interfering. But it shouldn’t be. These things are supposed to get accurate readings in deep chasms and through bad weather.”

Alex watched Thomas. The Alaskan’s face was expressionless as he studied his GPS and then the others’. Mistrust knotted Alex’s stomach. Could someone have tampered with the units?

His gaze went to each face, studying and assessing as his jaw tightened. He was starting to like these people and it was affecting his objectivity. Not good.

In Brynn’s stooped search position, a lock of hair came loose from her ponytail and she tucked it behind her ear. The woman genuinely cared about the people for whom she went on missions. It couldn’t be her. She wouldn’t put anyone at risk for any reason. More likely it was one of the men. Or someone at base camp.

Who’d want to keep us from finding that plane?

US Marshal Paul Whittenhall pulled Stewart aside, out of hearing range of that interfering sheriff. “Who’s available? Who can do this outdoor kind of snowstorm shit?” His heartbeat was doing double time and blood was pressuring the walls of the veins in his head.

Alex Kinton.

The name ricocheted through his brain like a Super Ball.

How in the hell had Kinton gotten out there?

Gary Stewart licked his lips. “Uh...Matt Boyles does this sort of thing, I think. He’s always going climbing or snow caving. He’s in Eugene right now, not too far away. I could call…”

“Call him.” Paul’s fist tightened on Stewart’s arm. “And tell him not to breathe a word to anyone else or he’s out of a job. It’s gonna be just the two of you going in after that search team.”

“Me?” Stewart’s eyes widened. “I can’t…” His dismayed gaze met Paul’s and he visibly fought down his panicked reaction. “Uh…Only two of us going after them? Don’t you think one more person—”

“No more. I want as few people as possible knowing about this. Get a hold of Boyles. I don’t care what he’s working on. He’s to drop it and get his ass up here. Then go to town and get your camping shit together. Collins said that team will be out there for two or three nights. That gives you plenty of time to get to Kinton.”

Stewart blinked. “But Boyles was—”

“Boyles is on a need-to-know basis. Just tell him Kinton’s cracked again and we’re worried about the safety of the crew out there. He’ll accept that.” Paul glared at the younger man, eyes burning. “And then I’ll have to trust your judgment on the best way to take Kinton down.”

Patrick Collins was being shut out and it was royally pissing him off.

The two federal agents had held a whispered conversation and then Deputy Marshal Stewart had jumped in the black Suburban and vanished while Whittenhall vented on his cell phone, waving Patrick off every time he’d approached.