Page 67 of No Hope of Rescue

A door slams just to my left, and there’s grunting and sniffling. People carry heavy crates, going down one, two, three steps.

“We got the gun. No picking at that blindfold, or I’ll tie your hands. This is a fucking courtesy, asshole. We need those hands working for takeoff.”

So, no bullet in the head—they need me.

Getting my bearings, realizing I’m not going to be body right away, I try again. “This helicopter only holds so much stuff. You can’t overload it.”

“Shut the fuck up,” says a second voice—the one I know but can’t place.

“There’s a weight limit. Look, assholes, we won’t be able to take off. How many trips you want to make?”

A third voice from behind, in the snow, says, “What’s the number?”

“3179 kilos.”

There’s a sharp crack on my skull, and for a moment, behind the blindfold, I see stars. Asshole. I probably would have been really hurt if I’d seen it coming.

There’s the sound of scuffling and then a shout, and then a ringing in both ears.

“We need him, you asshole.”

As it clears, I hear the quiet voice from behind say, “That’s about three thousand pounds.”

“That thing he’s sitting on weighs about that.”

“It’s close to twenty-five hundred pounds.”

There’s a silence and then, “You mean we have to leave all this shit we trucked over? That’s bullshit.”

“We could leave you behind. You’re about six crates worth,” Quiet Guy says.

There’s more discussion as blood trickles down the side of my face.

Then the extra blindfold binding my head to the pillar comes off, and I’m asked to stand. There’s the sound of a handcart, possibly two, being loaded and pushed through snow and slush, maybe wheeled onto boards—hard to tell. These handcarts must have already been here at the cabin. I’m shoved forward and stumble. In a moment, the other blindfold is cut and drops to the ground. I still haven’t seen Quiet Guy, but his gun is snug against the small of my back.

We’re moving together toward the Bell.

The chopper is packed. They’ve loaded the large item, which I’m now certain is the T-Rex skull, in the center, with other crates around and behind. The seats remain empty.

They know what they’re doing, or they’ve been instructed.

“I’m going to sit behind you with this gun pointed at your back,” the voice says. “The two others will be with me. We have one more crate to load into the co-pilot seat.”

I don’t want to argue terminology.

The tug of the side doors opening and being slammed shut shoots more adrenaline.

Showtime.

And they won’t know what hit them. Now is the time for demands. “Before I take you anywhere, you need to call off your man on the ground.”

“That’s not happening.”

“We’re sitting here until you do.”

There’s a sigh. Quiet Guy leans forward. “How long will it take to get to Fort Collins?”

“You mean Loveland?” I ask. “Twenty, maybe thirty minutes. It might be a little longer. We’re flying in really high altitude.”