Part 23
The tiny clearing Vin had referred to was crowded with official vehicles, more arriving every minute. The lean sharpshooter took one look and shook his head. "This ain't gonna work."
"The more help the better," Nathan protested.
"Not unless the 'help' can climb and rappel," Vin said dryly. He pointed up the mountain. "'Bout halfway up there-long before the cabin-the mountain's cleared. That's where the ski run used to be. Goin' by this," he pointed to the two maps on his lap, the faxed piece of paper and a Forest Service map of the region, "anybody in that cabin would have a clear view. He could kill Ez, open fire on us, and we'd have no cover at all."
Nathan and Josiah were quiet, but both were thinking the same thing. 'He could kill Ezra or maybe Ezra's already dead.'
"Any other options?" Josiah finally asked.
"A couple possibilities." Vin moved his finger on the map. "West of the cabin there's a sheer rock face...probably fifty feet. Maybe more. Someone-a couple of people- could traverse up that way." He looked out the window at the late afternoon sunshine, slowly shaking his head. "Don't think we'll have enough light, though. It'd be suicide to do it after dark."
That didn't mean Vin wouldn't try it, after dark, if another way couldn't be found. Nathan and Josiah understood that, and as much as they were probably the most cautious members of the team, they'd be right along if Vin - and by extension Chris - determined that was the way to go.
Vin was frowning down at the map. "There's a path up here - south of the cabin, see? Might have been the old supply road. That might be the best way. We'd have to hike in though - too much chance someone could hear engines before we got there." Even as he said it his eyes narrowed, his finger tracing the lines denoting the sheer drop-off to the west.
"What're you thinking?" Nathan asked.
"Um, brothers," Josiah interrupted, his eyes watching the rear-view mirror, "I think the situation just got worse."
"How the hell could it get-" Nathan and Vin turned.
"Damn!" Nathan swore.
"Who the hell thought sending Bobby Fewell in to rescue Ezra was a good idea?" Josiah demanded of the heavens.
The young agent jumped out of the driver's seat of the gray Agency vehicle, quickly opening the back door. After several seconds, AAD Montgomery gingerly stepped out, using his cane for balance. He said something to Bobby and the younger man reached into the driver's side window to sound the horn in several long beeps.
"What is he doing-?" Josiah started.
Vin leapt out of the vehicle, storming down to grab Fewell and yank him back. Josiah and Nathan shared a look, then scrambled to follow their angry friend.
"What the hell do you think you're doing, Fewell?" Vin barked.
'Vin's starting to sound a lot like Chris,' Nathan thought dizzily. He noticed all the searchers were starting to drift closer.
"Take your hands off him, Agent Tanner. He was following my instructions." Montgomery coolly eyed Vin.
"Your idea to alert everybody up there?"
"No," Montgomery said evenly. "I need him to gather together all personnel so I can issue assignments in this rescue mission, in order to secure your missing teammate, Agent."
Vin's eyes shot blue fire. "Assignments?"
"Yes." Montgomery tapped his silver-headed cane in the dirt at his feet. "I'm assuming command of this operation."
The three members of Team Seven exchanged shocked glances. Ryan Kelly of Team Eight cleared his throat, but before anyone could say anything, an ice-cold voice cut through the sudden silence.
"Like hell you are," Chris Larabee growled.
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"Pressure's still dropping, doctor."
Daniel Kruse - the surgeon currently engaged in trying to save the life of Buck Wilmington - was annoyed. No, make that he was pissed. Majorly pissed.
Tall, tanned, blond and blue-eyed, Kruse looked younger than his thirty-six years. He'd spent his entire life - including med school, internship and residency - in Southern California, never more than ten minutes from a beach and his surfboard.
What had lured him from a prestigious appointment at Long Beach Medical Center and persuaded him to give up surfboard for snowboard was the chance to work with Dr. Culver at his famed Trauma Center.
Now, going into the second hour of surgery, Kruse wasn't so sure that had been one of his brighter moves. Buck Wilmington's lung tissue was as brittle as parchment. Sutures weren't holding, and with every minute on the table he lost a little ground.
Kruse had done the initial surgery on Wilmington, but after three or four follow-up visits he'd turned post-surgical care over to the resident and the orthopedic department. Kruse didn't listen much to hospital gossip - not that there was much at University; Culver enforced a strict anti-gossip rule - so Kruse didn't know anything about the agent being poisoned until he scrubbed in for the emergency surgery.
"Pressure dropping," the nurse intoned. Kruse wanted to yell at her, to snap, "Of course his pressure's dropping; have you been watching this damn operation or sending out for pizza?"
He didn't, but more because he couldn't spare the energy right now. Another nurse mopped his forehead. He heard someone else order another bag of plasma.
"This isn't working," Kruse said. His eyes met those of the Chief Resident - one of the most brilliant natural surgeons Kruse had ever met.
Brilliant, but inexperienced: Kruse could tell from the look in his eyes the younger man didn't have a clue what to do.
Kruse took a deep breath. "Okay, everybody," he said, infusing as much confidence as he could into his voice. He was rewarded by seeing shoulders straighten, eyes light up over the concealing surgical masks. 'There's more to surgery than just wielding the knife,' one of his professors had always said.
His grandpa had another way of putting it.
"When in doubt, punt."
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Tension snapped, cracked in the cooling mountain air. Slowly, relentlessly, the sun dropped closer and closer to the surrounding mountains.
They were losing light.
They were losing time.
Montgomery broke the tense silence first. He cleared his throat, the noise sounding like a gunshot in the leaden silence. "Agent Larabee-"
"That's Special Agent In Charge Larabee." Chris' voice was quiet, barely loud enough to be heard by those standing closely, but the emphasis on the "in charge" couldn't be missed. Behind him, JD's slight form could barely be seen.
Montgomery paled, then turned red.
"As the ranking agent-"
Chris stepped closer, breaking into the older man's speech as well as his personal space. "Before you say one more thing, Assistant AD Montgomery, I think we should talk." He indicated one of the heavy tactical vans. "Privately."
The AAD hesitated, then, pulling the shreds of his ruffled dignity around him like a cloak, preceded Chris to the van. Both Vin and Josiah moved to follow him, but Chris shook his head. "Start working out a plan," he said, looking up into the sky. "We don't have a hell of a lot of time left."
Vin caught a glimpse of Montgomery's face as he stepped into the van. It was dark with rage.
"What're you doing' here, JD? How's Buck?" Nathan asked anxiously.
"He-" JD had to stop and clear his throat. His teammates took in his parchment white face and blazing eyes and exchanged looks of concern. "He's in surgery," JD finally blurted out. "His lung tissue...I guess it's just falling apart. They had to pull the tube out and..." he shrugged.
The seemingly careless movement didn't fool anybody. "Maybe you should have stayed," Nathan said gently. He was startled when Vin shot a fiery glare in his direction.
'Leave the kid there all alone when his big brother dies? Fuck that, Nathan.' Vin looked up into the darkening sky. "Hang in there, Bucklin," he said aloud. "We'll be back there as quick as we can-with Ez. You just hang on."
"Amen," Josiah rumbled.
Two Forest Service jeeps screeched to a halt, the drivers jumping out. Ignoring them, Josiah stared up the mountain in turn. "We could use an eye in the sky," he said wistfully.
"Send up a helicopter now and you'll have that guy running scared. Not to mention you'd be endangering Standish's life," someone protested.
The four men from Team Seven nodded. "We may have to risk it," Nathan said hesitantly.
"Don't think you will." One of the Forestry guys had interjected himself into the conversation. He held up a thick manila envelope. "I've got your eye in the sky right here."
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Monica Hastings ignored the melodic ringing of her cell phone, her whole attention focused on the equipment in front of her. She ran one pink-tipped finger down the lines of a thick computer printout, then rechecked her calculations by scribbling in her own shorthand on a long yellow tablet.
She kept coming to the same conclusion. The same answer.
But it just couldn't be that easy.
Leaning back on her high stool, she stretched, knotted back muscles easing immediately. She glanced around. Time stood still in the windowless laboratory. Glancing at her watch, she realized it was just past four in the afternoon. The labs were deserted, with the exception of herself and one other person, From what she could see he was cleaning up, preparing for the end of the day.
It didn't surprise her that the laboratory was deserted this early. Riverside Pharmaceuticals prided itself on allowing employees flexible schedules - allowing them to work when they felt most efficient, productive, creative. It had been one of the things the FDA had cited in their investigation of the stolen T-27, but Monica had flatly refused to change that policy no matter what Nina had said. Her cousin had finally tossed up her hands in defeat and produced a protocol that looked more rigid even if it really was not.
"Hey Nic, I'm ready to clear out for the night. You ready to leave or should I just lock you in?"
She looked up, exchanging smiles with Javier Gonzalez - Ha-V as everyone called him. Gonzalez was good, one of her top techs. He could be making good money - she paid well but there was no way she could equal the salaries of the big companies, at least not at this point - but he didn't have much initiative. Give him a problem, though, and he was like a pit bull trying to solve it.
"Can you check this for me?"
The request wasn't unusual - it was a stupid scientist indeed that didn't have someone check her work. It was Ha-V's main function in the lab.
"Sure thing." He dropped the eye-catching blue velvet coat he'd been ready to don onto another bench. She rolled her eyes as he hitched up his tight leather pants to get up on the stool. Ha-V was no doubt heading out for some recreation at his favorite gay bar or club for the evening.
He glanced at the screen, then down at her notes, frowning. "What is this?" he asked. "Doesn't look like anything we're working on."
"It's not. I'm doing a...favor, for a friend. Have you heard about the ATF agent in University?"
"The one that got poisoned with a breathing treatment? Yeah, I've heard. And they had the balls to say our security was lax! So you know one of the lab guys over there or what?"
She didn't answer - didn't have to - Ha-V was already concentrating on the screen and wouldn't have paid attention to her anyway.
Monica glanced around the room, once again feeling the glow of possession, almost a maternal love, that she felt to every time she remembered this was her place, her labs, her company. Riverside Pharmaceuticals fulfilled a dream she'd held tightly in her heart as long as she could remember - a dream treasured, taken out sometimes and smiled over, then carefully hidden away again - for the long years of her training and education. A dream she'd never thought possible, even when she'd entered college at sixteen, earned two doctorates with highest honors, and been the recipient of every award possible.
She'd had seven job offers immediately - four of them from the biggest pharmaceutical concerns in the world. Even though a part of her longed to accept one of those, to be affiliated with those names, she'd politely turned down all of them. Big, faceless corporations didn't assign brand new employees to head research teams, no matter how gifted the employee was. And that was her goal: to lead her own team, make a name for herself quickly. With that in mind, she accepted a job at a smaller firm, small but of impeccable reputation, signed a three-year contract and moved to Cascade, Washington, ninety miles north of Seattle.
It rained even more in Cascade than it had in Denver. Monica worked twelve to eighteen hour days and loved every minute of it. Still, when her three years were up she knew it was time to move on. She used the excuse that Cascade was just too dangerous a place for a single woman - seemed like someone blew up a building every week - and she left with the company's promise of another job any time she wanted.
Again the big-name firms came sniffing around; again she turned them down. Moving one hundred fifty miles south, to Seacouver, she went to work for Pacific Northwest Pharmaceuticals, immediately heading up a team developing a new drug for juvenile asthmatics.
Seacouver was a pretty dull place, compared to Cascade (although there seemed to be an inordinate number of headless bodies that turned up periodically) but Monica was there to work, not socialize.
She'd probably still be doing that, switching companies every couple of years as they made better offers, saving lives and making millions for the employers with her genius, if her uncle hadn't decided she'd belonged back in Denver with the family. He offered her the one thing she wanted - her own lab, her own company - years before she could have realistically expected it.
She'd been so worried lately. She might fancy herself independent from Arthur Curran, but her uncle had provided the start-up money; his friends sat on the Board of Directors. But Nina had done some fancy shuffling with the books and the company charter, and now the US Government would never be able to prove Riverside Pharmaceuticals had ever derived financial support from Curran. Anyone looking at the books now would see a loan to a favored niece, an initial loan immediately paid back as soon as said niece came into her own trust fund. That the trust had initially been set up by her uncle meant nothing - his own people had hidden that years ago.
"Nic?"
"Finished with it?" she asked. Probably. Ha-V was fast, smart and thorough.
If he would just buy some tasteful clothing...
"You called it, Boss," the tech replied cheerfully. "Those guys over at University must have their heads up their asses...not that it would be a bad idea, with some of them," he leered. "But how the hell did this get into Denver?"
Monica bestowed a rare smile on him as she reached for the phone. "Figuring that out isn't our problem," she pointed out. "Download everything and get ready to fax it to University Lab. I wouldn't trust the morons to get it in an email." She paused, and then said, "Take another fifteen minutes and point them to the antidote. My uncle used to say, if you're doing a favor, make it a BIG one. That way they owe you more!"
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JD walked quickly, trying to tread lightly. The crunch of his borrowed boots in the crusty snow seemed horribly loud, dangerously loud in his own ears, but no one else seemed to notice. Three yards ahead of him, Nathan slipped and for a second JD was sure he'd fall. He clenched his muscles, took a larger step - he'd have to catch Nathan before he went off the path altogether and over the steep incline - but Nathan regained his balance. After a scant few moments to catch his breath, Jackson gestured at JD and took another step. Carefully, lightly, JD took another step in turn. Always nine feet behind Jackson, nine feet ahead of the other guy - he didn't know his name, someone from the Forestry Service. Never look up to the top of the mountain, or toward the cabin hidden in the shadows on the bluff. Never to look over, to see the sheer cliff walls falling away from solid ground just inches from his feet.
JD shivered, pulling his borrowed jacket closer around his body. The jacket, like the boots, was too large, donated by one of the Forestry Service guys who had recently shown up to assist in the rescue.
His mind drifted back ten minutes. Everyone had tried to crowd into the tactical van behind the "Smokejumper" as JD had heard one of the sheriff deputies call the guys in the Forest Service jeep. The guys who had the answer to getting to Ezra, as it turned out...
~~~~~
The air was still singed with the words exchanged by Larabee and Montgomery. The two of them stood at opposite sides of the table, both with arms crossed in front of their bodies. "I outrank you, Larabee," Montgomery hissed. "This conversation is over!"
"This isn't a conversation and it never started." Chris' voice was low and cold, colder than even when he'd faced the worst criminals.
JD shivered. He'd used his smaller size to slither in behind the Smokejumper. Vin was here too but Nathan and Josiah were caught in the throng outside. Then JD saw Bobby. He'd apparently been in the van all the time and sat in the driver's seat but swung around so he could watch what was going on. His eyes narrowed when he saw the influx of newcomers. "Sir!"
He was probably trying to get Montgomery's attention but he got Larabee's first. The Team Seven leader made eye contact with Vin first, then nodded and swung around to the Smokejumper. "You have pictures?"
Try as he might, JD couldn't figure out how Chris had known that, but the Smokejumper did, indeed, have pictures. Lots of them, taken from the air, taken over the last week, with the majority of the glossy shots covering the last forty-eight hours. The time Ezra had been missing.
"One of our pilots noticed some activity going on around here awhile back," the biggest and oldest of the Forestry Service guys said, pointing to one of the pictures. "Greenish Jeep Cherokee parked here, movement around the old cabin, a little clearing on the access road. Stuff like that. Even saw a Mustang up here once, not all the way up but to the control tower." He pointed to another picture, an aerial shot of the ski slope side of the mountain with a late model white Mustang. "Don't know how the guy got that up there - he must be one hell of a driver or he's not overly fond of his engine.
"You have to know Stan - Lewis, that's the pilot - for this to make any sense. He lives up here year-round, doesn't really have much of a life outside the job. And he's one hell of a pilot-plane or copter, doesn't matter. He - well you don't want all the details - but this is his life...his territory. He got kind of nosy as to what was going on. This area was leased out years ago to some corporation. Stan started looking and figured out the corporation was an empty shell. Then he got real interested in what was happening."
"Excuse me, but what does any of this have to do with Standish?" Bobby Fewell broke in impatiently.
"Shut up, Fewell." Chris' voice was about as warm as liquid nitrogen. He nodded at the Forestry guy. "Go on."
The ranger hesitated, but one look at Chris' piercing green gaze and he gulped, then went on. "Stan wanted to know who was messing around up here. The lease was no help, but about fifteen months ago the Service issued a burn permit for this area to a Steven Curran."
The name was familiar to the ATF agents and they all looked at each other even as the ranger went on to say, "The Jeep Cherokee is registered to Steven Curran."
"Steven Curran is dead." JD didn't know who said it but everyone seemed to nod in response.
The ranger grinned. "Well I assume you all'd know about that." From the look on his face it was obvious he had discovered just how Curran had met his demise. He pointed to the Mustang, then plopped another picture down. It was a close up of the same shot - with the license plate clearly visible.
"JD!" Chris snapped. "Run this plate-"
"Already taken care of," the ranger interrupted. He smiled at the stunned looks on the ATF agents' faces. "Like I said, Stan wanted to know - and he has a lot of friends in some rather interesting places. Anyway, the Mustang is registered to a David Wyerly. Denver address."
"David Wyerly..." The name was familiar but JD couldn't quite place it. He heard a sudden intake of breath and looked up to see Vin's eyes darken. He didn't say anything though, and Nathan suddenly snapped his fingers.
"Wyerly. That's - isn't that the name of that lawyer? Monica Hastings' cousin? The one we met at the labs that day?"
JD felt cold chills at hearing Monica Hastings' name. Seemed like every time he turned around, there she was - his thoughts scattered at Chris' next words.
Chris looked at Vin, then back at Nathan. "Don't know about the lawyer," he said quietly. "But there was a Wyerly involved in the Curran case. Remember? David Wyerly is Arthur Curran's nephew - -and Steven Curran's cousin."
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"Damn, I can't believe how stupid we've been."
JD didn't mean to say it out loud, but the voice that came over the small comm unit in his ear indicated that he had. "Keep it quiet, JD," Bobby Fewell's voice ordered. "You're too close to the cabin to make noise now."
JD flushed. Nathan glanced back at him but the shadows were too thick to see his expression. Bobby was on radio duty. The thought that that would have normally been his or Buck's position was just one more thing to churn in JD's stomach.
Although he'd reprimanded JD, Bobby didn't seem to see any need to stop talking himself. "I can't see how this cockamamie plan is going to work. No pilot can be that good."
"Lewis is!" JD didn't know the voice. Had to be one of the Forestry guys.
A snort. "Right. Larabee must be nuts risking his life on that copter." Bobby's voice dropped and JD couldn't tell if they were supposed to hear. "For Standish of all people."
JD could see Nathan's head jerk up, and heard a hiss in his ear that had to be Vin Tanner. Before anyone else could say anything, a voice of authority broke through. "Next one of you yahoos that opens their mouth gets five days suspension. Unpaid. Or does no one remember the concept of 'radio silence'?"
It was Ryan Kelly, leader of Team Eight. He didn't do pissed as well as Chris Larabee, but there was no doubt he'd carry through with his threat. Or maybe just let Chris kill the next hapless speaker. JD felt his cheeks burn as he remembered that Chris couldn't talk to them, but he could no doubt hear everything said over the chopper band. Then he shook his head angrily. 'What do I care what Chris Larabee thinks?'
That was the thing though, he did care. Even through his anger and his hurt and the deep, gnawing fear that had been decimating his insides ever since the explosion that had almost killed Buck, Chris was still his friend. His boss. JD had a job to do and Ezra's life might depend on how well he could do it.
Always assuming Ezra wasn't already dead.
His mind shied away from the thought, shied away from the idea that Ezra might be dead, already, and that nothing they could do would save him. Just like nothing they could do could help Buck...
Pain wrenched through him again.
'Please God,' he prayed silently. 'Please. Don't let either one of them die. I need them, God...I don't know where the hell all this is going but I need them both.'
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Twelve miles away as the crow-or the helicopter-flies, a signal was given and a helicopter rose from the landing pad and gracefully turned, streaking toward its target. Inside, Chris Larabee sat in the co-pilot's seat. Stan Lewis, the Forestry Service pilot he'd heard so much about, was next to him. Chris hoped to hell this guy was as good as his friends seemed to think he was. The pilot hadn't even twitched an eyelash when Chris had described what they needed, just nodded his head, said, "You coming along?" and walked out to his bird. Taking a long look at the wall of the man's cabin-a wall decorated with pictures and medals and commendations going back thirty years-Chris followed.
Lewis was about Josiah's age but shorter, sturdy, with a wild mane of graying brown hair he'd ruthlessly pulled back into a tight ponytail. His hands rested on the controls with the familiarity of long sho.
His lips quirked when he, like Chris, listened to the verbal exchange over the headsets. Lewis seemed to find it amusing. Chris didn't; he wasn't sure who he was more pissed at, JD for starting it or Bobby Fewell for continuing it. Thank God Ryan Kelly had shut them down. JD honestly knew better, but the kid wasn't thinking clearly right now. Chris had strongly debated pulling him out of the mission altogether, sending him back to the hospital to be with Buck, but Vin had talked him out of it. "JD's hurting," the lean Texan had agreed. "But he's part of the team, Chris. He has to be here. You pull him out now and he'll never get over feelin' you don't trust him."
Vin was right, and Chris admitted that if just to himself. But there was another reason Chris had hesitated about sending JD back. If the worst happened, if Buck didn't make it, Chris didn't want JD to be at that hospital all alone.
'But you left Buck alone,' a nasty little voice reminded him.
Alone, the way Sarah and Adam had been that last day...
'Damn it, don't go there. Not now. Keep your mind on Ezra...'
The pilot's voice crackled through the headphones. "Hang on to your stomach, Larabee. It's showtime!"
The copter dropped like a stone.
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Vin shifted his weight on the limb of the tree he rested upon. Climbing the majestic thing had been more than a little difficult – fresh abrasions on his legs oozed blood to freeze in the chill air.
Spring in Denver had given way to a late-Winter lashing, and the storm was drawing closer by the minute. Vin just hoped they had enough time. Enough time to get Ezra out of the cabin.
If Ezra was actually in the cabin. If Ezra just wasn't already dead and his body dumped somewhere.
Unlike JD, Vin's mind couldn't shy away from that thought. It was possible. Hell it was more than possible, it was probable. How long had Ezra been in this nutcase's hands? A full twenty-four hours. Maybe longer. One day didn't seem that long most of the time, but when a friend...more than a friend, family - was gone missing and going through what kind of hell with a guy who could be anything: from white collar criminal to psychopathic killer to revenge seeking lunatic...
His gloved hands clenched around his weapon. Pushing everything else away, he focused through the scope, a straight shot, if only the wind didn't strengthen, on the half-shuttered window on the near side of the cabin.
Elsewhere two other snipers were focusing on equally small targets, hopeful of lobbing some tear gas into the building. Nathan had argued against the idea; so had other paramedics but in the long run it was less dangerous than a full-on assault on a man with a hostage in a small cabin, and they all knew it.
Vin, though, wasn't loaded with tear gas. Vin was looking for, would take it if he could, a kill shot.
He heard the slight crackle of static in his ear, and then the word, the simple word that said it all.
"GO!"