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…fucked 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.

“What’d he say?” Reid stared at the numbers with a scowl.

“They found the plane, but he seemed unable to get readings from their GPS units. For some reason the units are giving different readings.”

“One of them’s got to be right. Any survivors?”

“I don’t know. He said ‘three dead.’ He didn’t use the words ‘made it’ or ‘survived.’ He did say someone was sick.”

“Who?”

Patrick shook his head, hating the powerless chill that had crept up his spine during the call. “I don’t know what the hell’s happening out there.”

“You gonna tell Whittenhall?”

“Fuck, no.”

Paul Whittenhall thought Gary Stewart was going to vomit.

The deputy marshal’s lips were pressed together as if he was keeping his breakfast down. His gaze was all over the place, and he wasn’t focusing on Paul or listening to his instructions. Paul itched to smack some backbone into the agent.

Damn it. Why wasn’t there someone else he could send out there with Matt Boyles? Stewart was more a pencil pusher than outdoorsman, but Paul needed someone who could keep his mouth shut and knew the stakes of the success of this mission. Boyles could be kept in the dark, but Paul needed Stewart out there in the woods calling the shots.

Boyles frowned at the map. “That’s a huge area to search for a plane. Why don’t we wait to hear from the other team? We don’t want to duplicate any area they’ve already covered.”

“Can you track the team? Can you just try to meet up with them?”

Boyles furrowed his brow, his eyes curious. “I can try, but the snow makes it nearly impossible.”

“I just want you to connect with the group that’s out there. Kinton’s a wild card. I don’t know what the fuck is going through his head. If he runs into Darrin Besand, he’s gonna kill him with no questions asked. And I don’t want to even think about the danger Kinton poses to the members of that hasty team. He’d risk their safety to get his hands on Besand.”

Boyles nodded slowly. “You think he’s that focused?”

Paul gave a rehearsed look of surprise. “You need to ask? You wanna see the scar he left on my stomach? Back then, Kinton lost every shred of common sense over one of Besand’s transports and took it out on me. Now he’s lost it again and I don’t want anyone else getting hurt. He’s a walking time bomb, and those searchers are completely expendable to him. It’s our duty to get Darrin Besand safely to his next trial in Portland. I’m not going to let a hothead ruin the plan.”

Darrin stamped his feet. The copilot’s coat made him feel heavenly warm, but his damned feet were cold. He’d hoped to find an extra pair of socks in one of the pilots’ duffel bags but no luck. He did find sweatpants that he’d put on over his jeans and under his jumpsuit. The sweats were a little too short and tight. Darrin was tall and definitely not skinny, with a wide chest and shoulders. Before he’d gone to prison, he’d had a hard time getting clothes that fit properly.

That was one of the reasons he’d liked his job as a caregiver. Scrubs fit him easily. They came in all sorts of roomy sizes. He’d also liked the open access to a wide range of patients and medical personnel. Drugs too.

Darrin gently touched his left shoulder. In one pilot’s bag he’d found a bottle of Vicodin, which no sane pilot should be taking while flying. Darrin had immediately popped two in his mouth and washed them down with bottled water. Now the shoulder was feeling much better. His head too. As long as he didn’t move it abruptly.

When is the rescue group going to leave?

He was ready to get out of the woods. He’d follow them back, figure out a strategy for dealing with Alex Kinton, implement it, and then vanish before they reached their base camp. Had the plane wreck created much attention? There had to be media and cameras hanging around, waiting for their heroes to return. Briefly, he considered strolling out in front of the press. Being on TV was a head rush. And what a sensation it would cause if the lone survivor of the plane crash walked out of the woods.