Heston (In the Company of Snipers #25)

Chapter Two

“Meeting! Sit Room! Now, gawddamnit!”

Murphy roared from the hallway into TEAM One’s work bay.

“And you two…”

He stuck a finger at agents Heston Contreras and Asher Downey in their shared workspace.

“Get your asses over to the helo pad, and take your gear.

You’re Oscar Mike and you’re already late! Keep your ears on.”

It wasn’t often Murphy cussed, which Heston interpreted to mean they were headed into a dangerous assignment.

Oscar Mike was military speak for On the Move.

Fine with him.

Since returning from Arkansas and that debacle with agents Shane Hayes and Everlee Yeager, he’d been itching for more action.

Mark Houston’s usually calm voice issued the same command just as nasty as Murphy’s, across the hall where he faced TEAM Two’s workbay.

Heston hurried faster.

Jerking his already packed go-bag from under his desk, he scrambled for the side exit out of TEAM HQ, tucking his comm link into his ear as he ran.

Asher was fast on his six, both men running against the tide of available TEAM agents flooding the hallway and headed for the Sit Room.

The only difference between the two TEAMs was their leaders.

Senior Agent Mark Houston handled the Virginia group, TEAM One; Senior Agent Murphy Finnegan and what agents had relocated with him from the Seattle Office, comprised TEAM Two.

All former military, some spec ops, but every last one of those men and women dedicated to Alex Stewart.

Soon to be VP Stewart, or so the scuttlebutt went.

Which was a shame.

Losing Stewart to the grandiose debacle that was Washington DC, would be an extreme waste of talent.

Alex should be President, not assigned some dead-weight job as VP, ass-kissing the toxic powers of the press, Hollywood, and Congress.

“Whatever’s up, it’s big,”

Asher murmured in Heston’s comm link as they slammed through TEAM Headquarters’ side exit and headed north, around the entire complex of buildings, to the helo pad situated far south of Harley Mortimer’s barns and Maverick’s corrals.

“Any ideas?”

“Could be anything,”

Heston replied as he lengthened his stride.

The chopper’s rotors were already spinning.

“The bombing in Paris last Friday.

Maybe the freighter stuck in the Suez.

Latest intel indicated radicals from Syria planned to bomb it.

Create more chaos.”

That brought Heston’s attention back to Murphy.

It wasn’t often the Vietnam vet looked like shit, but he did today.

What hair he had left was mussed, and his coloring had been damned near gray.

His blue eyes usually twinkled.

Murphy was good cop to Alex’s perpetual bad cop.

But there’d been no twinkle today.

Murph’s eyes were as ashen as his pallor.

Mark didn’t look much better, and Heston wanted to know who’d died.

“Alex is in trouble,”

Murph declared from the Sit Room, his voice clipped and firm in the comm link inside Heston’s ear.

“Heston and Asher are flying to Washington’s Rainier National Forest, his and Kelsey’s last known location.

A Forest Service chopper will meet them at SEA-TAC, then fly them up to the Longmire Wilderness Information Center inside the park.

You copy, Heston? Asher? You got your ears on and listening, gawddamnit?”

“Copy that,”

both agents answered simultaneously.

Murphy continued tersely, “Forest Service’ll get you up to Glacier Basin and the White River campground, which, according to the permit Alex filed, is where he and Kelsey camped last night.

But knowing Alex, he wouldn’t pass up the chance to crest either Mount Ruth north of Emmons or K Spire inside Fryingpan Glacier.

Both are nearby and both have altitudes around eight thousand.

That leaves two rivers you’ll need to search: the White and the Fryingpan.

Emmons Glacier feeds directly into the White, then joins the Fryingpan before it dumps into the lower White at Owyhigh Lakes.

Either Alex called from the eastern most tip of Emmons where it feeds the White, like Mother suspects or he called from Fryingpan before its confluence with the White.”

“As of now,”

Mark Houston interjected, “we have no way to know which way they went or exactly where they are.

You’ll be spread damned thin.

Do your best to find them.”

“Where’s the White go after the Fryingpan joins it?”

Heston asked.

Something cracked in the background before Murphy could answer.

Must’ve been the Sit Room door banging open because Mother called out, “Got his coordinates, Murph.

If he’s still got his phone.

If not, I’ve got his last known location.

Don’t have a clue where Kelsey is.

Her GPS hasn’t pinged all day.”

Which meant her cellphone was either turned off or broken.

“Then where the fuck is he?”

Murph growled.

Another first: the one and only F-bomb Heston had ever heard come out of the Vietnam vet’s mouth.

“GPS puts his last location east of Emmons Glacier, Murph,”

Mother snapped.

“North of Baker Point.

Forget the Fryingpan.

He’s in the White because Kelsey’s in the White.”

“God, no,”

Heston growled.

Kelsey and Alex both in a glacier-fed river? In the middle of no-damned-where on that mountain? What the hell happened?

“At least we won’t have to search both rivers,”

Asher whispered.

“You sure about that wild-assed guess, Mom?”

Murphy was in rare form if he dared call her Mom.

“When am I ever not sure about what I tell you, Murph?”

Mother bit back at him.

Tempers were frayed thin if these two were already at each other’s throats.

“Why were they even up there?”

Heston asked Mother, Murphy, and Mark, not wanting to interrupt, but needing to know.

Mark took over.

“Sorry TEAM.

We’re a little stressed.

Should’ve filled you in sooner.

Alex and Kelsey were on a much-needed getaway.

Kelsey wanted to hike the Wonderland Trail that circles Mount Rainier, but yeah, something went wrong.

Only intel we’ve got so far is from the SOS Alex sent before he went dark.

Which wasn’t much, just that Kelsey took a headshot and fell in the river. At that time we didn’t know which river. Now we do. Bottom line, he couldn’t get to her in time and, yeah, he’s probably in that same river trying to save her. Thanks, Mother. We really appreciate everything you’ve done. Anything else you can tell us?”

Sasha Kennedy, affectionately called Mother or Mom, must’ve been standing closer to Mark, judging by the volume of her voice over Heston’s commlink.

“I’ve been on Jed McCormack’s geo-synchronous satellite system since Murphy got the call at ten AM our time, people.

Which is seven on the Pacific Coast.

Which means Alex and Kelsey were up too damned early!”

Heston thumbed his cell phone on.

The screen showed East Coast time at eleven fifteen; eight fifteen in the Pacific Northwest.

Kelsey had been in the water for more than an hour.

Alex, possibly—no, scratch that—make it just as long.

“Too many trees and undergrowth,”

Mother complained, plenty of irritation in her tone.

“I can’t see the terrain, but Alex was definitely close to the White when he made the last call.

Which tells me he’s tracking Kelsey, or trying to.

Only the chance he’ll find her is damned slim.

The White used to be a placid run-off stream, but lately, it’s a dangerous stretch of rapids known for white water, underlying boulders, fallen trees, undertow, whirlpools, and—”

“Hypothermia,”

Ember Dennison’s voice spoke up from somewhere in the Sit Room.

“Those are all glacier-fed rivers, guys.

Ice-cold water might slow down Kelsey’s system enough to help her survive, if she was dressed in cold weather gear, and if she was healthy when she fell in.

But if she’s been shot, she’s bleeding from her brain, and—”

“Right.

Understood,”

Mark cut in somberly.

“The cold might not help at all, Ember.

Got it.

Mother, continue. Hurry.”

Heston quickened his run.

Limp bodies in turbulent waters still bled.

Might even bleed faster.

“We believe Alex was shot, too.

Can’t confirm, but can’t deny he was probably the intended target, not”

—Mother’s voice cracked— “not her.

Not poor Kelsey.”

Heston gritted his teeth at the nightmare taking place too far away for him to do either Alex or Kelsey any good.

He and Asher raced the rest of the way to the helo pad, nodded to the man who would get them to SEA-TAC, former Air Force colonel and A-10 pilot, Decker Edison.

Within seconds, their asses were strapped into the rear seats of the latest experimental helo out of McCormack Industries, and their safety headsets were in place.

This helo was a sleek, black, and deadly-quick tiltrotor that could easily transform into an airplane while in flight.

Originally engineered for the FBI’s SWAT use inside densely populated cities during riots, it came with tiltrotors that allowed it to land vertically with very little engine noise.

Because of its flat-black paint, non-reflective bullet-proof windows, and silent approach, it had quickly become the Bureau’s prized weapon against the growing mob violence within American cities.

It hadn’t been designed to transport troops or heavy payloads, and it offered more air speed than other tiltrotors, including the V22 Osprey.

To date, McCormack Industries was the only defense contractor to produce a helicopter/tiltrotor that reached MACH 1 air speed.

“Ready to take off, Mark, Murph,”

Heston advised curtly.

“Thank God you youngsters are quick on your feet,”

Murphy replied huskily.

“Find Alex.

Find Kelsey. God…”

His voice cracked.

“Find those kids as quick as you can.

Bring them… bring them home.”

“Yes, sir,”

Heston vowed.

“Safe travels,”

Mark added hoarsely.

“We’ll be sending every available agent to assist, but you two are point.

Do what you can, as fast as you can.

Stay in touch.”

“Copy that,”

both Heston and Asher answered.

“I’ll report as soon as we hit SEA-TAC,”

Heston added.

“Again once we’re on Rainier.”

“Hope you’ve got warm coats in those gear bags.

It’s only September,”

Mark offered, as if Heston didn’t know what time of year it was.

“Winter starts early at high altitudes.”

Decker sent Heston a thumbs-up over his shoulder.

“Don’t worry, Boss.

Decker’s got us covered.

Talk to you soon.”

“Copy that,”

Mark said.

The connection ended.

Asher growled from the rear-facing seat across from Heston.

“I’ve got a bad feeling.

Fuckin’ bad.”

Heston nodded.

He had the same ugly feeling.

A limp body floating in a glacier-fed river stood little chance of survival, no matter how warmly that body was dressed.

Hypothermia was a silent killer.

Once a body lost heat faster than it replaced it, hypothermia didn’t take long to do its worst.

Normal body temp was ninety-eight point six degrees Fahrenheit.

Anything less than ninety-five would be deadly.

There were five stages, each more critical than the previous, ranging from mild to moderate to severe, ending at irreversible hypothermia and—death. If Alex and Kelsey were still in that river… God, help them.

Heston squeezed his eyes shut to block the blowback from karma that came from throwing negativity into the universe, from even thinking Kelsey might be dead.

That he and Asher were too late.

Alex and his wife needed all the hope he could send them.

So Heston prayed the prayers of his Mama, Bellisa Contreras, the humblest woman on the planet, the one who’d taught him to trust the Lord when all seemed lost.

The lady who’d taught him that, more than anyone else, Christ was able.

Heston bowed his head and begged for Divine intervention.

Because this mission was sounding more and more like body recovery than rescue.

The helo dropped Heston and Asher swiftly at Jed McCormack’s private terminal at SEA-TAC.

A sleek, forest green Forest Service helicopter sat waiting on the tarmac, its rotors spinning.

Egress was a quick run across the tarmac, quicker introductions to the pilot, whose name Heston instantly forgot, then lift-off and a sharp veer eastward.

The flight from Virginia had burned enough daylight.

Heston continued to refuse the cold, hard logic that shadowed every hopeful prayer and wish he sent heavenward.

More than anything, more than The TEAM he’d created, maybe even more than his children, Alex adored Kelsey.

One had only to look at the way they treated each other, how their eyes lit up when the other was around, to know that.

They were the stuff romance novels were made of.

They were genuine.

They were everything Heston wanted in his life, but didn’t have a clue how to get.

Kelsey had to be alive.

Somehow. She just had to.

Because Heston knew what heartache was.

He knew the opposite of true love.

The cold, hard slap of desertion.

He knew the death of dreams.

The beginning of lonely, empty nights, of too many TV dinners and take-out.

Too many fast-food wrappers, empty plastic drink cups, smashed lids, and broken straws littering the floor of his truck.

The unending looks of pity from friends and family.

He didn’t wish that on anyone. Surely not on Alex.

The flight to Rainier took them northbound over I-5 to SR 7.

From there, the helo followed a river Heston couldn’t identify.

The upper Nisqually? The Puyallup? Didn’t matter.

Mount Rainier’s glaciers fed both.

Before long, strong northerly winds from the approaching storm buffeted the elite helo.

Damn.

Bad weather could officially end the search for Kelsey before it started.

Not like Heston cared what officials decreed.

He didn’t work for them.

Just Alex.

Just Alex and Kelsey.

An idea struck hard and in seconds, he’d fingered his commlink, hoping his call to Mark Houston could get through at the altitude the helo was flying.

It did.

Mark had no more than answered, “Houston.

Talk to me,”

when Heston ordered, “Bring the dogs, Mark.

Whisper and Smoke.

Get Alex’s dogs to Washington right damned now.

They’ll find Kelsey.

I know they will.”

“I should’ve thought of that,”

Mark shouted.

“Damn straight.

Should’ve sent them with you and Asher, damn my stupid—”

“Damn your stupid nothing,”

Heston retorted, watching Asher come to life across from him.

This mission had been one bleak clusterfuck after another, but for the first time, something that felt a lot like hope unfurled between him and Asher.

Mark needed to send the two former EOD K-9s that adored Alex and Kelsey to Mount Rainier ASAP.

Whisper was a pure black, fierce-as-hell, unpredictable GSD known for his over-protective snarl and his sharp as shit canines.

The older he’d gotten, the testier he’d become whenever anyone approached Alex’s kids.

Smoke was a silver Malinois and as obedient as the day was long.

Both had been utilized as trackers before when others had been lost.

They were the answer today, not the two bone-headed agents still too far from Rainier to do Alex and his wife any good.

“Copy that,”

Mark replied with a little more enthusiasm than before.

“You heard back from the rangers on Rainier yet? Any word on Alex or Kelsey?”

Please say yes.

“No, nothing,”

Mark replied.

“Hope that means they’re too busy searching to get back to us.

See you soon.”

“God, I hope so,”

Heston murmured to himself when the call disconnected.

The helo banked a hard left that took them around Mount Rainier’s southwestern flank, up to the Northeast side of the mountain and Emmons Glacier.

Heston swallowed hard against the hollow pit in his gut, the feeling that this was a suicide mission.

He needed to throw up, but swallowed the bile creeping up his throat instead.

The men and women on The TEAM were each made of tougher stuff than most soldiers, sailors, Coasties, and guardsmen and women.

The TEAM had done good all over the world, some in combat-torn countries, some in clean suburbia.

So had he.

Heston steeled his heart, denying the strong emotions that linked him with his boss, compartmentalizing the fear of losing the man who should be king, and the wicked pain of not getting to that man’s queen in time.

Whisper and Smoke might be what they needed to locate the Stewarts, but the cold hard truth was—the inescapable fact of Nature was—even two highly-trained dogs might not be able to locate Alex and Kelsey.

Not if those rivers froze and not in what looked like upcoming blizzard conditions.

It might already be too late.

Heston bowed his head and stared at the floor mat between his boots.

His feelings didn’t matter.

He was no different than those dogs.

He’d signed on with Alex to be just another resource, another highly-trained machine with a damned hard job to do today.

Nothing more.

Nothing less.

And just like Alex’s dogs, if necessary, Heston would give his life to save his boss and Kelsey.