Page 77

NINETY MINUTES LATER, MAHONEY was working on a laptop on one of the FBI’s jets. It had just reached cruising altitude and was heading west-northwest.

The supervising special agent in charge had a brightly colored app up on his screen and was studying the pink pin glowing there in the middle of the page. He clicked it for the tenth time since seeing it on Willow Sampson’s iPad.

A smaller screen popped up, noted there wasn’t a constant signal emanating from the Jiobit fob that Willow said she’d put in her father’s pack. It had broadcast its position only twice, both times in the last twenty-four hours, twelve hours apart, for barely ten seconds.

But it was enough. It was—

Mahoney’s phone rang. He looked at caller ID and groaned because he knew the shit was about to hit the proverbial fan.

“Director Hamilton,” he said, trying to sound calm. “How can I be of service?”

“Where the hell do you think you’re going, Mahoney?”

“Kimberley, British Columbia, ma’am,” Ned said.

“With no approval?” she thundered. “Taking a jet?”

“I approved my own requisition of the jet. I have that discretion.”

“Turn around.”

“Respectfully, no, ma’am. You told me to get an arrest in this case before the inauguration. That’s where I’m headed.”

There was a long pause before Hamilton said, “Who are you arresting?”

“I will tell you that when I know.”

“What?”

“Ma’am, as I’ve tried to explain, Dr. Cross, Chief Stone, Detective Sampson, and I believe that the murders of the Supreme Court candidates are tied to Maestro and the late Ryan Malcomb. They disappeared following the Malcomb angle, but now they’ve made contact.”

“What? Did they call you or message you or something?”

“In a way,” Mahoney said. “A GPS transponder has signaled a location deep in the Canadian wilderness where Cross was last seen with an RCMP officer who is also missing.”

“What are the Mounties telling you?”

“That the weather is bad, that their helicopters are all grounded for the time being, and that Officer Fagan is an expert winter camper who always went into the backcountry prepared.”

“So what are we looking at? A wilderness rescue? Or an arrest?”

“If we can get to that location in time and find them all, maybe both.”

The agent knew the acting director was not happy. He could hear it in her voice when she said, “I want both. I want to be able to tell the president-elect that we got both.”

“Yes, ma’am. I’ll keep you posted.”

He was exhausted when he hung up. He had risen through the Bureau’s ranks swiftly and kept so cool under fire, his peers joked that he had an invisible shield around him.

But it felt like the constant pressure from the acting director was putting cracks in his invisible shield. Mahoney yawned, told himself he’d be useless if he didn’t rest before landing in British Columbia, and closed his eyes.

He’d meant to nap for twenty minutes, maybe a half hour. But three and a half hours later, the copilot shook his shoulder and told him they’d started their descent into Kimberley and that winds were up, so landing was going to be turbulent.

That was an understatement. Ned had never experienced a bumpier approach and kept his mind off it by looking out the window at the vast alpine terrain of the Canadian Rockies, snow being blown off the peaks by the high winds.

When he got off, he hit warmer temperatures than he’d expected, and there was no snow falling yet. But the wind was howling as he made his way into the private jet terminal.

A big bear of a man with flaming-red hair wearing an RCMP parka came over and shook his hand. “Captain John Olson,” he said.

“Nice to put a face to a name,” Ned said. “Any chance of getting in there soon, Captain?”

Olson shook his head. “It’s dicey with the helicopters in winds like this, and we’re supposed to get hit hard with snow again starting midafternoon.”

“Snowmobiles can’t do it?”

“Like I said earlier, we’ve had more than a hundred centimeters of snow in the past few days and this wind is loading it, making the backcountry exceptionally prone to avalanches.”

“So when do you think we can fly?”

“If we’re lucky, tomorrow morning,” the police captain said, then looked down when a ring tone came from his pocket. “Give me a second.”

He dug the phone from his pocket, said, “Olson.” Then one eyebrow went up. “How long ago?”