The Breach - Ghost Country - Deep Sky

and narrowing, maybe judging, the big guy in the hat coming around from the door now, reacting hard at the sight of the clamps, asking what in the holy fuck they were—
    “This is how I found her,” Travis said over them all. “She hasn’t spoken, I don’t know who the hell did this. I don’t know anything, just call it in, okay? How fast can the cops and paramedics get up here?”
    That last bit was for the locals’ benefit only—he had no intention of waiting around for police or anyone else, or entrusting her to their protection even if they somehow arrived before whoever Tangent sent.
    But it worked. Any suspicion aimed at him vanished. Molly was already rounding the counter, picking up the phone and dialing something longer than 9–1–1.
    “Gonna be five, six hours for the cops,” the big man said. “There’s no highway patrol on the Dalton. Medevac chopper out of Fairbanks, figure ninety minutes at least. Had a trucker come in here having a heart attack, couple years ago, took that long for them to make the flight.”
    Molly, waiting for the call to connect, shouldered the phone and scooped a key from a pegboard. She tossed it to the big guy and said, “Three’s clean, he can set her in there.”
    The man led Travis through the back exit of the room, into a short hallway lined with doors.
    Room Three was simple and clean, lateral sunlight casting a coppery glow on the bedspread. Travis set Paige carefully atop the cover, taking the most precaution with her arm; letting anything press against the wound might traumatize her. As it was, the change of position triggered another of the deep breaths that seemed to nearly choke her.
    The guy in the hat stood just inside the door.
    Travis watched Paige’s breathing return to normal and then said quietly, “Do you have any weapons here?”
    In the corner of his eye he saw the John Deere hat turn toward him.
    “The camp I found her in,” Travis said, keeping his eyes on Paige, “there were different kinds of boot prints, three at least, none of them hers. No telling where those people are now, but if they were to show up here …”
    “Christ …” the man whispered.
    “The cops are six hours away, like you said,” Travis continued. “Anyone familiar with this area probably knows that too. If you’ve got a gun, be ready with it. You and anyone you trust, if you have more.”
    The guy nodded, then went to the window and stared out, the brim of his hat touching the glass as he scanned the ridges to the west.
    Travis felt bad lying to him, but the truth was simply not workable, and it would have been far worse to stay silent, given the risk he’d just brought upon this place. That part, he felt the worst about. But what choice had there been?
    The man in the hat turned back to him. “Yeah, let’s not fuck around,” he said, and made for the hallway.
    “Can I call out on this?” Travis said.
    The guy stopped in the doorway and looked at the phone on the nightstand Travis had indicated. “Dial nine first,” he said, and left.
    Travis pushed the door most of the way shut, took the First Lady’s note from his pocket and began to punch in the number she’d provided. As he finished dialing, he heard the door creak, and saw it swing slowly open again under its own weight. The phone cord kept him from reaching it now; no matter.
    The call rang once and then a lively recording began. “Thank you for calling Laketon Associates, your consulting solution for dynamic—”
    He entered 4–2–5–5–1. The line clicked, and within less than a second a woman spoke.
    “Key term,” she said flatly, more a demand than a question.
    Travis blanked. “I don’t know it.”
    “Who is this?”
    Matching her lack of banter, Travis said, “I’m a civilian. I found your plane. Everyone’s dead except Paige Campbell.”
    Things happened very quickly then: a rapid exchange of voices somewhere, then muffled clicks as other extensions opened.
    A man: “Where are you calling from?”
    Travis thought they probably already knew that. “Coldfoot, Alaska,” he said. “The crash site is thirty-six miles west of here—”
    “Stop,” the man said. “Your line’s not secure. Give us direct answers and don’t elaborate—”
    “They’re dead,” Travis said. Exhaustion and stress had made it easy to get pissed. “You have one survivor, and if you want to keep her, you better send a goddamn cargo jet full of paratroopers up here, and make sure one of