“Search and rescue’s en route too. We won’t be handling the survivors of the crash or getting them out.”
Lipton nodded and sat back as the chopper lifted. In seconds, they were in the air, flying through snow that could ground them and lose them their lead for their first target.
As they flew, the men remained relatively quiet, and Penn didn’t grill them. They’d have plenty of time for show and tell once they were hunting Yahontov. He pulled all his training to the front of his mind and heaped it into one collective spot in his brain that he could draw from on this mission. His time spent in Alaska hadn’t prepared him for this type of work, but plenty of other missions did, including a stint in Moscow working to free a British reporter from a palace where she was being held.
Hep kept examining his boots, turning his feet right and left and crowding into Beckett’s space. “Dude, what the hell are you lookin’ at? You got dog shit on those boots?” Beckett finally asked.
A couple of the guys chuckled.
“Just wondering if these boots will do for deep snow.”
“The treads are like tank treads. You don’t think that’ll cut it?” Beckett cocked a brow.
Hep shrugged. “I’ve never been in snow before.”
Penn’s own brows shot up, and he blinked at the man. “How the hell did you get chosen for OFFAT then?”
“Name came up a few times I guess.” He grinned in a way that made Penn believe there was more to the story he hadn’t read in a file.
“Fair enough. The boots’ll suffice. When we get in there, first objective is locate the pilot and see which direction the tracks went. Search and rescue will take care of the rescue, and we’re hunting Yahontov.”
Lipton brushed his gloved knuckles under his jaw. “You sure it’s Yahontov? I thought he operated out of Russia.”
“There’s been word for a few years that he’s expanded his ring. A dozen missionaries were executed on his order a year ago.”
“What the hell would missionaries have to do with drug trafficking?” Lipton asked.
“Apparently they were in the wrong place at the wrong time. Things went south and they lined them up on the edge of a ditch and shot them all.”
One of the guys blew out a low whistle, and silence descended over the group. Penn’s inner strategist played out everything that could go down. He wouldn’t walk into this blind—he had to prepare for every eventuality. Xtreme Ops versus Alaska seemed to be the biggest factor, if the whippy movement of the chopper was anything to go by. The pilot would be lucky to get out of there too.
Within minutes, they were dropping in to the coordinates where the plane crashed. When they set down, Penn had a second of stunned realization. He was here—leading his own team against one of the most hunted men of the twenty-first century.
The jolt of the chopper touching down on land set them all into motion. Penn led the way, jumping from the chopper with every man following on his heels. They navigated from the small clearing which had been the only place to safely land. The chopper lifted off again, zooming through the sky to outrun the worst of the storm coming from the west.
“This way,” he ordered into their comms units. He followed the slope of the land up to where the plane had been reported to have crashed. Sure enough, the snow here was banked up, and dark earth visible underneath from where the aircraft slid about three hundred yards before coming to a halt with one wing projected upward.
“Shiiiiit,” Broshears said quietly into their earpieces.
Just then they heard another chopper, this one with a higher pitched whine of the blades. Penn tipped his head to the sky. “Search and rescue. Broshears, Lipton, Hep, look for the mark’s tracks. You two, you’re with me.” He waved a hand toward the downed plane.
As they approached, the twisted metal and deadly quiet of only falling snow met their ears. The wreckage had an eerie abandoned feel, like a dinosaur skeleton no human eyes had seen in eons.
Crouching beneath a pine branch heavily laden with snow, Penn peered into the open door of the plane. A body lay there, still, under a blanket.
He rushed the last few feet and reached in to touch the victim. “Hello? Can you hear me?”
“Eh? Uh. Cora, is that you?”
“I’m Captain Penn Sullivan of the Xtreme Ops. Are you the pilot of this plane?”
“Cora?” He pushed onto his elbows—or tried to, before collapsing.
“Don’t move, sir. Try to conserve your energy. Help is here. They’ll be with you in a bit.”
“Penn, there’s a set of fresh tracks leading away from the wreck. Look to be small. How large did you say Yahontov is?”
“Five-ten and a hundred seventy-five pounds.”
“Unless the dude’s got small feet to match his small dick, then someone else is out here,” Broshear’s words projected into Penn’s ear.
Penn moved out of the wreckage that shielded the pilot from the elements and looked to Gasper. “Watch over him. Beckett, you’re on his six. Be alert.”
“What’s going on? Is that bastard still on the loose? Has he gotten to my Cora?”
“Who’s Cora, Captain Sullivan?” Penn heard Gasper ask.
“My daughter! She’s with me.”
“Captain, you hear that?” Beckett asked as Penn trekked from the scene.
“I heard. Everyone be on the lookout for another passenger on the plane, possibly a woman. The man might be addled.”
“I’m following her tracks now, I’d say,” Broshears cut in.
“Hang back ’til I catch up,” Penn ordered.
Seconds later, he overtook the head of the line following the tracks through the fresh powder. As soon as he spotted the bright red down parka between branches, he raised a fist for his team to stop.
With his rifle at the ready, he approached. If he called out and the person ran, they’d be on a chase through the thick undergrowth piled with snow. In weather like this, they needed to conserve energy as much as possible simply to stay warm.
He waved for the guys to create a ring around the woman, and his team crept in without the person in the red jacket being alerted to their presence. Penn slipped in fast and stealthy. As soon as he saw streaky blonde strands of hair laying over the collar of the jacket, he signaled.
On his three, Broshears nodded.
They tightened the ring. Suddenly realizing she wasn’t alone, the woman bolted to her feet, weapon raised. She looked straight into Penn’s eyes. Blue-gray shards of ice set into a pretty face, pale as the snow but bearing a scrape on her brow and a swollen cheek with a hint of blue to indicate bruising.
“Who are you?” she demanded.
“Keep your voice down. I’m Captain Penn Sullivan. Were you in the plane crash?”
Her brows met in the middle over her slim, model-perfect nose. “My father! Is he all right? Are you search and rescue? No, you can’t be. They don’t carry guns!” Her tone adopted a frantic edge.
Dammit, he hated calming women. He could rarely think of a time when one actually settled down from anything he had to say. This one looked ready to bolt into the underbrush and possibly send Yahontov running farther.
“We’re searching for a man who was on the plane with you.”