“For what it’s worth,” Free interjected, “the correct answer is usually lobster.” Without waiting for a reply, she asked Bales about the specs of the helicopter awaiting us at the rangers’ station.

“Two-blade, dual engine,” Gabriel answered on the old man’s behalf. “Military-grade.”

I absorbed that information without joining in the conversation that followed. The helicopter was a means to an end.

A too-small, too-loud means to an end.

Knowing what to expect didn’t keep my shoulders from squaring or my teeth from grinding against each other as the car came to a stop and I took in our ride. The deafening roar of the blades saved me from having to speak to Gabriel—or anyone else—as we loaded up. The helicopter was a seven-seater—bigger than most of what I’d encounter if I went into SAR.

Still not big enough.

I didn’t let my heart race. I didn’t let the tight quarters matter any more than the company. Fear was one thing. Adrenaline was another.

Adrenaline, I could do.

Focused and in control, I latched myself into the seat. Saskia sat at attention between my legs. I kept my hand on her collar, but she seemed to sense that there was no leeway here—if any of our K9s showed the least bit of anxiety at the noise or tight space, that was game over, before we’d even taken off.

After a safety check, the pilot nodded to Bales, who was observing from a distance, then coaxed the aircraft slowly off the ground. The front of the copter tilted forward, and my harness bit gently into my shoulders as the world below us got smaller and smaller. We cruised over the top of the tree line. From this vantage point, Bear Mountain didn’t just look massive; it looked ancient and unmovable, beautiful, deadly.

I could feel my pulse thrumming in my wrists, my stomach, my neck. I concentrated on the feel of Saskia’s fur beneath my fingers as the copter angled hard to the right. The mountain was a blur of colors—silver and white and green. The trees were dense enough on this side that I wasn’t sure where—or if—we could touch down, but slowly, a flat brown area came into view.

“Sorrow’s Pass is about a half-mile hike inward,” our pilot informed us as we touched down. “This is as close as I can get you. Exact coordinates—”

“I know Sorrow’s Pass,” Gabriel said, and somehow, the words weren’t lost under the sound of the slowing blades.

Thirty seconds later, we were feet-on-the-ground, and the helicopter was in the air again.

“I am only mostly as motion sick as anticipated,” Jude said, looking distinctly paler than usual. “I count that as a win.”