“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.