Chapter 12 - The Chopper on the Ridge
The rhythmic whop-whop-whop of heavy helicopter blades vibrated through the canyon walls, growing louder by the second. A massive black utility chopper crested the ridge, bearing no military markings, its searchlight sweeping across the tree line in wide, blinding arcs of white light.
“Get down under the rock overhang!” Vance yelled, waving everyone deeper into the shallow limestone cave carved into the base of the cliff.
They pressed themselves flat against the wet rock as the chopper hovered overhead, kicking up a hurricane of wind, twigs, and loose gravel. The searchlight beam swept back and forth across the clearing, missing their hiding spot by barely ten feet thanks to the thick canopy of overarching firs.
“They’re running thermal scans,” Marcus whispered, his voice barely audible over the deafening roar of the rotors. He reached into his jacket and pulled out a small tactical thermal blanket, tossing it over Claire and the Director. “Keep your skin covered. If the camera picks up a heat spike, we’re done.”
Claire pulled the silver foil blanket tightly around her shoulders, her eyes fixed on the patch of gray sky visible through the narrow cleft in the rocks. The chopper hovered for what felt like an eternity, its engine whining as it adjusted its altitude, before slowly turning tail and heading back toward the main highway.
The roar of the blades faded into a distant hum, leaving the forest eerily quiet once more.
Sheriff Vance let out a long, ragged sigh, sliding down the rock wall until he was sitting in the dirt. “I’m too old for this kind of policing. When I signed up for Owyhee County, the worst thing I ever had to deal with was stray cattle on Route 95.”
“You chose the wrong county to retire in, Vance,” Marcus said dryly, checking the magazine of his pistol. He looked over at the Director, who was shivering under the damp chill of the cave. “And you picked the wrong asset to burn.”
The Director glared up at Marcus, his jaw tight. “You think you’ve won something here? You think walking out of this canyon with a flash drive brings back what was buried?”
“It brings back the truth,” Claire said, stepping out from beneath the thermal blanket. She walked over to the Director, looking down at him with an expression of profound, restrained grief. “My brother didn't die for your pension fund, and he didn't die for your oversight committee. He died because he found out you were selling ghost identities to cartels south of the border.”
The Director’s eyes flickered with a sudden, dangerous realization. “He told you.”
“He told me everything in an encrypted voice memo sent five minutes before his truck went off that cliff,” Claire said softly. She reached into her pocket, pulled out her phone, and tapped the screen twice.
The tinny, unmistakable sound of David’s voice filled the quiet cave, echoing off the stone walls.
“If you’re listening to this, Claire, it means I didn't make it off the ridge. The Director is running the book. Don't trust the local chain. Go to the cabin.”
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Deputy Miller swallowed hard, looking down at the ground. “My uncle helped them sink that truck, didn't he?”
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