Whyte’s convoy passed into the upper Michigan peninsula and made a beeline for the Huron Mountain Range. Dense forest shrouded the range, and every time they climbed to a high point, Mark saw emerald and pale-green trees as far as the eye could see. The semitrailer truck from the plane had caught up to them, with no news to report on Dilbert. The rest of the helicopters from the airport had joined at some point before they crossed into the peninsula. They flew at a steady pace above the vehicles, scouting ahead now and then for any sign of trouble.
Whyte kept his nose in the tracker as they neared the range, murmuring with Emeryl and looking at a map of Michigan they had drawn on. The Overwatch base had captured a satellite image of Heather’s plane and the direction it was pointed in that morning. “So my inside person said the first transfer in the armored trucks left and got back to the Cave...” Whyte had said to himself, jotting down some times, doing quick math, and tracing the first transfer’s route on the map. “As for the plane…” he began, taking more notes and traces.
Mark didn’t understand why Whyte bothered to keep an eye on the tracker, as Heather’s pill had long ago worn off. He wondered if Whyte was tracking something else. Perhaps his inside person had taken a pill? Heather seemed to suspect the same, as she gave a knowing eye to Mark, and then Whyte every once in a while.
She patted Mark and pushed him a little so he fell back into the seat. She raised her head, showing that a lump had built under her scarf during their travel. A small one, not enough to kill both Whyte and Emeryl. But perhaps enough to control. Mark dared to hope that this might work. He flattened against his seat and covered his nose and mouth as she leaned forward quickly.
Whyte was faster and drew a pistol on her. “You’re testing my patience,” he said. “Next time, I’ll stop the car and call Lionel.” He looked at Mark, who turned elsewhere. Heather sat back and gazed out the window.
They soon stopped near one mountain on their left and Whyte raised the tracker. He aimed at the mountain, waited for several minutes, spun to his right, and then southeast. “Go,” he said. “Slowly.” Emeryl obeyed, and they wound around bends to other mountains, repeating the same pattern. They finally arrived in front of a particular one, taller than any so far. Again, Whyte had him stop and aimed the tracker at it. A small dot blipped on the screen and he smiled. “Gotcha.”
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Rogues of Overwatch Page 62
