One of the guys coughed, clumsily covering a laugh. Ryan, maybe? Alex scanned the men coolly, aware he’d been caught a second time looking longer than was polite. He studied his “team.”

Ryan was biting his cheek, a weak attempt to stop his grin. Sun-bleached hair lazily covered his forehead, reminding Alex of a surfer. Ryan looked like he belonged in a different kind of wet environment. Jim had a manner of natural leadership and sharp, focused eyes that swore to keep tabs on Alex. The third man had stayed silent, his face expressionless. His black hair and tanned skin hinted at a Native American background. Thomas was the biggest of the bunch, and Alex’s neck muscles contracted as Thomas’s deep eyes considered him.

One to watch.

Brynn was still silently laughing at him. After the dog’s wagging tail, Brynn’s brown eyes were the only cheerful objects in the gloom. Almost sunny, Alex decided. If brown eyes could be called sunny. His chest warmed at the sight.

“Here.” Collins appeared and roughly shoved a heavy pack into Alex’s startled hands. “That’s my own seventy-two-hour pack.” He eyed Alex’s height. “Extra clothes in there should fit all right. You got a cell phone?”

“Yes.”

“GPS?”

“Uh…in my phone.” He had no idea how the thing worked.

There were snorts from the team. Collins mashed his lips together. “You’re not looking up directions to a party downtown. That’s gonna be useless out there. I meant a GPS unit with an altimeter and US Geological Survey maps.”

Alex lifted his chin. “Don’t have one.” He felt like he’d been caught with his pants down.

“Won’t matter, I guess. Everyone else has one.” The sheriff stood motionless for five seconds, his stare digging into Alex’s personal thoughts. “Your boss wouldn’t tell me much about that plane. I know it’s a Piper Cheyenne.”

Alex steadied his breathing, his fists tightening, and didn’t volunteer any extra information. “Are we ready now?” He needed to get to that plane ASAP. Away from this man who looked at him with the eyes of a psychic, digging deep into the darkest corners of his brain and finding him lacking.

Collins coolly nodded. “Jim will bring you up to speed.” Curiosity touched his features. “Damn, you look familiar. Name doesn’t ring a bell though.”

“I’ve got one of those faces.” He turned from the older man and lifted a brow at Jim. “I’m ready.”

Thomas and Ryan were already headed up a dirt—make that mud—trail. Jim grudgingly waved Alex on and then brought up the rear with Brynn pacing ahead of him.

“Kiana, go,” Brynn spoke. Her dog shot past Alex and out of sight between the trees.

Alex blew out a breath, wishing he cared as little about the rain as the dog did. To him, trekking in the great outdoors was as much fun as getting a prostate exam. And trekking in the rainy great outdoors was something he avoided like bad meat. But here he was, biting off more than he suspected he could chew. He stepped heavily in his new boots, splashing water onto his rain pants. He watched the drips roll down the waterproof surface. He could stomach a little rain for a while. Maybe this wouldn’t be too bad.

He glanced over his shoulder at the woman trudging ten feet behind him and tossed a question back to her. “Did Collins say seventy-two-hour pack? What’s that mean?”

“It means your pack is supplied to last for three days.”

“Three days?” He stumbled over nothing and her laugh echoed off the skyscraping firs.

“This isn’t TV. Did you think we’d find the plane before the first commercial break?”

He wished he’d packed that pill bottle.

Darrin Besand’s head hurt as if a grenade had exploded nearby. He shifted in his seat, trying to reposition his left shoulder so it didn’t ache like it’d been stabbed with a dull blade. He slowly turned his head to the right and tried to open his eyes, but they felt sticky. Like melted ice cream was gluing his lashes shut. Using his right hand, he brushed at his face. Because he was still cuffed, his left arm had to move with the right and he groaned at the pain. The goop on his eyes was warm and thick—definitely not ice cream. But why was he so cold?

Snow.

He forced his eyes open and stared at the ceiling above the seat in front of him. It’d been ripped wide open, giving him a view of a dark gray sky, its light barely illuminating the interior of the plane. A half-inch dusting of snow over the seat backs and on the floor told him he’d missed a snowfall. He sat up straight in the wrecked plane, ignoring the scream of pain from his shoulder as memories of the crash rushed through him.

The ride had been rough. Wind and rain and ice had pelted the little plane, making the pilots double-check that everyone was belted up as they headed for the nearest airport. Forget the landing site in Granton. They were going to find whatever was closest. The original filed flight plan had been to land in Hillsdale just west of Portland. The undisclosed real plan was to land at the tiny airstrip in Granton, thirty miles south of Portland. That plan had been scuttled for whatever airstrip or airport was closest, as the weather whipped in with a blow strong enough to make the two pilots sweat.

During the wild turbulence, the US marshal across the aisle from Darrin had held his armrests with a death grip. Sweat had formed on his temples as his lips had moved in a silent prayer.

Darrin had been fascinated with the strength of the storm and the effort of the small airplane and pilots. It’d turned into a life-and-death contest, and he’d found himself siding with the weather. The thought of death didn’t bother him. Anything was better than returning to prison. He’d struggled to survive in prison. The dreary walls and rules and suffocating atmosphere had been slowly killing him. A fast death in a storm was preferable to a lifetime of slow rot behind bars.