Rummaging through his rucksack, Harry chucked the CamelBak, tarp, twine, and rifle into a pile of nonessential items. Even if Sharidon showed up with the thermal viewer, it was too bulky for him to cart into the forest.

After tucking ammo magazines and his sat phone inside his cargo pockets, Harry shoved the handgun inside his waistband. The jet suit took up the majority of space inside his rucksack. To save battery life, he needed to hike to the ridge before he booted up the jet battery and started his aerial search.

In the end, Harry loaded the jet suit and bits of his remaining gear inside the pack, then tossed a pair of binos around his neck. He gazed longingly at the rifle and turned away. No help for it. As is, the pack’s additional weight would slow him down.

Frustration mounted within him as he slipped the rucksack straps over his shoulders and checked his watch. Every minute he deferred was another minute in Gilmont’s favor. Once Elise and Sammy were under his wing, he’d rest easier. Until then, it was hard to remain objective.

By his calculations, if Gilmont started a systematic search of the Tay Forest closest to the Hermitage first, he would reach the northern sections of park sometime that afternoon. If he hurried, he could find Elise and Sammy and extricate them before Gilmont showed.

A crunch of gravel sounded behind him.

Harry drew his Glock and spun about.

A young man with dark hair and green eyes raised both hands, a grin splitting his features. “I’m Sharidon.”

“You certainly took your time,” Harry ground out.

“There was a bit of a mess on the A9. To avoid it, I drove over the worst dirt track known to man. My car got a puncture for my pains and took forever to patch.” Sharidon’s voice lilted, the Irish apparent in every word.

Harry exhaled and lowered his weapon marginally. “Who sent you?”

“Our dear friend Nigel. I believe you’re acquainted with him? Not that I don’t blame you for checking.”

The rigid muscles in Harry’s body eased. He put away his gun, grateful Sharidon had arrived. Rarely did MI6 conduct rescue missions for agents. If something went wrong, usually, they were on their own. Taking on Gilmont and his minions single-handed had not sat well with him.

But heaven help him, Sharidon had taken his sweet time getting here.

Harry approached the back of his 4x4 while he took in Sharidon’s non-threatening appearance. The agent looked the typical hillwalker: anorak, boots, beanie, rucksack. His boyish features proclaimed his age as no more than twenty-three or twenty-four.

“How heavy is your pack?” Harry asked, eyeballing Sharidon’s rucksack.

“Light enough.” Sharidon grinned.

“Fantastic.” Harry picked up the rifle and box of cartridges. “Carry that, would you?”

He handed Sharidon the rifle and ammo, then locked the boot. Sharidon checked the gun’s barrel with competent movements.