Not if. When. Ryker doesn’t say a single word he doesn’t mean. He believes there’s a chance Nash is still alive. That we can save him.
He taps his tablet again. “We put a tracker in Nash’s backpack the other day, but we weren’t actively monitoring his location because he was with you.”
A map of the United States appears on the center screen with a blip over northern Idaho and a second one over South Dakota.
“When you wiped your phone, West and Inara were closest,” Ry says. “I was home with Wren. She confirmed your location, then checked Nash’s tracker. That’s when we figured out he was in the air. We lost the signal after that second ping.”
“Why?” I glance at the clock in the corner of the screen. “If they took him to Chicago…shouldn’t it be transmittin’ all the way there?”
“An airplane is a giant Faraday cage.” Ripper stands apart from the rest of the group, looking vaguely uncomfortable. “But the tracker hasn’t come back online. Either they tossed the backpack or found the device.”
Nash’s entire life was in that backpack.
Oh, God. Bandit!
Is the little stuffed sloth still on my dresser? Why didn’t I ask Ry to check?
Because you were delirious. Focus.
“Rip was able to confirm that a private jet left Boeing Field at 3:46 p.m. bound for Chicago. It landed forty-five minutes ago,” Ryker says.
“Why are we sittin’ here, then?” I snatch the ice pack off my knee, but Ry holds up his hand.
“Because our pilot was in Portland for his biennial flight review,” Ryker snaps. “He’s still an hour out. We’ll be wheels up by midnight.”
West taps his tablet screen, and in unison, all the phones in the room vibrate. “Packing lists. If it looks like a lot, it is. We’ve got no idea what we’re walking into, so we need to be ready for anything.”
With no phone—and no idea if Ryker will even let me on the plane—I don’t move when the rest of the team scatters. Until Inara kneels next to the recliner. “I’ll help you clean up. If you want.”
I touch my hair. It’s sticky. Doc Reynolds cut my jeans all the way up to my thigh, and my flannel looks like I was an extra in the Texas Chainsaw Massacre.
“That bad, huh?”
She chuckles. “Yes. And Ry hates it when we get blood on the plane seats.”
“You’re assumin’ he’s gonna let me go.” I lean on her heavily as we limp toward the showers.
“He will. But don’t expect to leave the van once we get there. I can only work one miracle a day.”
Graham sets a cup of coffee in front of me. The plane is stocked with fresh beans every time, thanks to West, and the rich scent is a small sliver of normalcy in this awful night. It’s after 2:00 a.m. We only left Seattle forty minutes ago—some hassle filing our flight plan—and I’m dragging.
I should try to sleep. West, Tank, and Inara are all stretched out in the fully reclining seats, but it’s only a four-hour flight. If I tried, I’d end up worse off than I am now.
“Base to Alpha Team.” Wren’s voice fills the cabin from the speaker in the center of the plane’s conference table. “I broke the encryption on Duncan’s cell phone. He’s got some very interesting messages. Sending to your screens now.”
Ryker flips the switch on the wall monitor. “Base, you should be asleep.”
“Tell that to your daughter. She’s been dancing on my bladder for the past two hours. I’m fine, Romeo. Look at what I sent you.”
Duncan: I’m in Seattle. When can you get here?
AR: Tomorrow night. He’s going to hate me, you know.
Duncan: He’s your son. He’ll forgive you. Eventually.
AR: I hope you’re right. Call me when you’ve made contact.
“Holy fuckin’ shit. AR?” I sit up straighter, wincing as my various bruises protest the movement. “Angelo Rossi is alive?”
