Page 71 of No Hope of Rescue

Whoever it is waves back.

The tension in my back eases. I crack my neck and settle in to land. At least someone knows I’m up here with these assholes.

The hangars lie in a slow curve, fanned for maneuvering aircraft. A long “16” in white reflective paint blinks in the full sun. This is it. I drop the Bell in stages.

“No hard landing,” says the voice. “And get as close as you can to the hangar.”

The other two men have long since shut up.

The buildings quickly enlarge with every meter we drop.

“Closer.”

I tilt the stick. Finally, in a minimal tornado of snow dust, the Bell settles about ten yards from the hangar opening, and I cut the engine. A man steps out from the cavern of the hangar dressed in dark clothes and a ski mask. The poor aircraft stinks of petrol and oil. We’re lucky we didn’t blow the engine or rotors. I unglue my hand from the stick.

“Get out,” says the guy. “No signaling, no waving your arms. Just get up and walk into the hangar normally. No hands above your head. I’ve got a gun on you, and my friend there in the hangar has an itchy finger. Go slow.”

The other two men are already tugging at the door to get out. Every nerve is firing. I just want to turn around and take Quiet Guy and hurl him through the glass. But now’s not the time. No one’s in peril except for me.

Focus.

As I walk into the hangar, my eyes adjust to the light, revealing a small airplane sitting in the center. It’s a white twelve-seater, slightly larger than the one that crashed. Pinholes of bright light filter through a few small holes in the corrugated metal at the back.

The new guy, all in black, comes up behind me. I’m told to face the wall. Before I do, I take in what’s in the dark besides the airplane. Not much. There’s a small forklift in the corner.

Sounds of loading and unloading are muffled by the blood rushing in my ears. I have to plan. A good thirty minutes go by, and then that voice, the one I think I recognize, says, “We’re gonna need that forklift now,” and then there’s more muted conversation.

Soon, it becomes clear no one knows how to operate the forklift. I don’t either, but it can’t be that hard.

“You. Pilot. Get over here. We want you to move cargo from the helicopter to the plane.”

The hand on my shoulder twists me around, so I finally get a look at the men who captured Codie. There’s one guy, the shorter one with a shaved head and a small tattoo on his left temple, but most of his skin looks like it’s got a sheen to it. Each knuckle looks like he’s had a tat taken off. That’s the thing about mercenaries—they don’t want to be caught and found by their tattoos. Many are having them removed. The effect is eerie. It’s like he’s shedding.

The second guy, the taller guy, I recognize. That’s why his voice sounds so familiar. The kids used to call him “Benchwarmer” down in Echo Falls, because that’s where he hung out: on benches. He did odd jobs. He’s skinny, maybe early twenties. Possibly a drug addict. They probably needed someone local.

I’m not sure he knew he was getting mixed up in something like this, but there’s a weird light in his eyes I haven’t seen before. This excites him. He likes it. This is going to make him difficult to deal with and unpredictable.

Quiet Guy is the boss. Medium height, long expensive coat, thin leather gloves. His hands must have froze in the Bell. Good. Has to be in his forties, prematurely gray with white hair trimmed very, very short. He’s wearing an Irish cap and a flannel scarf. He could be a college prof.

New Guy, all in black, is large—possibly also former military and/or mercenary and waves me over to the forklift. I turn it on, back out, and head toward the Bell. Her side is open, and the last of the crates is being unloaded by the bald guy and skinny kid.

I’ve never driven a forklift, but the directions are laid out in icons, so it’s easy. After Quiet Guy climbs back into the Bell, he watches the approach carefully, guiding me in. I position the lift arms under what I’m sure is the T-Rex skull. The six-foot long, three-foot wide T-Rex skull. Massive.

The sun is warm on my back, but I’m chilled. I have no idea where the other chopper went. Maybe it was just a friendly wave, and the person had no idea who I was. The forklift, leveraged with weight, dances up slightly taking on the entire load. Slowly backing up, I then turn around, and roll the forklift to the plane. There, the two mercenaries move inside the twelve-seater to complete the transfer. As soon as I withdraw and park it again in the corner, I know I’m in for trouble.

They don’t need me anymore.

“On your knees,” says New Guy.

I kneel as my heart begins a slow, hard slam under my ribs.

“Hands on your head. On your head,” he repeats for no reason.

Benchwarmer jumps down from the plane just as my captor pulls my ski hat off and the collar down, announcing, “Let’s see who we have here.”

Benchwarmer stares at me a moment. “Fucking shit!”

Quiet Guy says nothing. But it’s clear from his face, he also thought I was dead.