“She’s a high-value prisoner,” Vicious remarked as he bent down to grab a long wooden pole from the mud. Without breaking a sweat, he hefted it up with his considerable brawn and slammed it into the wet ground, driving it deep. “No resistance,” he said, glancing at Terror. “It feels like nothing but mud. No bodies, for sure.”
“She’s a high-value prisoner,” Terror repeated. “What does that mean to you?”
“That if the guards were smart enough to flee before the storm reached its zenith, they would have taken her with them,” Vicious explained. “She’s worth more alive than dead and buried up on this mountain. We know they moved her at least four times since she was taken captive. If the information you got from the interrogation was true,” he qualified. “You don’t move a prisoner four times and then leave her up here to die.”
“No, you don’t,” Terror agreed. His attention switched from the demolished camp to the ruined slope of the mountain. “If they took her and they made their escape fast enough, we’ll have to find another way to track her down.”
“No need,” Grim interjected. His name fit him well as he grimly skulked toward them from the woods where he had disappeared earlier. His boots and pants were covered in mud and leaves. A man of few words, he was worth listening to when he chose to speak. “She went up the mountain.”
Terror’s gaze snapped to the woods and the steep incline toward the summit. “You’re sure?”
“Boot prints in the mud,” Grim said, shaking the water off the collar of his jacket. “Boots are too big. The person who made the print is petite. Maybe five-one,” he estimated. “Approximately one-ten. No more than one-fifteen.”
“That’s her.” Terror had estimated her height to be similar, but her weight seemed higher. Of course, she had been held captive for weeks, probably starved. She could have easily gotten down to that weight range by now.
The despair in his chest started to fade. It was replaced with a sliver of hope and an intense feeling of pride. Maisie was smart, resourceful and tenacious. Maybe too tenacious, he thought. “We should move. She’s got hours on us, and it’s been raining the whole time. Her tracks might wash out.”
“What about Zeph and Hazard?” Vicious gestured to the ship where both pilots remained inside, ready to launch at a moment’s notice.
Terror tapped his mic. “Zeph.”
“Sir?”
“Move to a secluded location. Bring up your shield. Wait for contact.”
“Got it.”
Terror shrugged into the jacket Vicious had given him. “Let’s go.”
Grim took the lead, utilizing his excellent tracking skills to keep them on her trail. The hike was hard, and Terror worried about how Maisie was faring. After being a prisoner for weeks, she was probably malnourished, dehydrated and possibly even sick. There was no trail to make her climb easier. She had hacked her way through the dense brush, climbing over rotting logs and scrambling through gullies.
“She’s spry,” Vicious said before jumping up the steep side of a washed-out creek. His boot slipped in the mud, but he caught himself by grabbing onto an exposed tree root. He hauled himself to the top before crouching down and holding out his hand. “Like Hallie.”
Knowing how much Vicious loved his wife, he understood that was one of the highest compliments the general could ever pay. Terror took hold of his friend’s gloved hand and climbed up the side. When he reached the top, he turned and offered his hand to Lethal who barely needed the help. It was an irritating reminder of how much damage Terror’s body had endured over the years. Everything hurt, all the time. Those first few minutes after waking up were absolute hell as his stiff joints and tight muscles refused to cooperate.
More and more, he had been thinking that maybe it was time to stop. Not to retire or anything drastic like that. No, time to step back and move into a more managerial role. Time to train the next generation of the best covert operatives and plan missions using his years of experience to keep men safe.
His thoughts turned away from retirement to Vicious. For the ninth time since leaving the Valiant, he noticed Vicious glancing at his watch. He couldn’t be sure Vicious was checking his communication logs, but it was the most likely reason for him to glance at the device so often. He had his suspicions about it.
Stepping closer, he asked bluntly, “Who are you reporting to? Orion or Savage?”