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is the heart getting to the hospital in time.”
    â€œIs this an issue?”
    â€œWell, generally speaking, the heart is only viable for four hours after removal. The helicopter flight from Wilmington to Knoxville is a little over three hours in normal weather conditions.” Markinson ran a hand over his mouth. “Due to the approaching blizzard, the medical technician transporting the heart has certain medications he can inject that will extend the viability for up to forty-eight hours. So it should all be fine.”
    Warren shoved to his feet. “Keep me abreast of the situation, Noah. I’m heading to the hospital to be there when the witness comes out of surgery. I want to hear his testimony firsthand.” No way would he be left out of the loop again.
    With a nod toward the other men at the table, he turned and left the room with Kevin right on his heels.
    Friday, 6:45 p.m.
    Abrams Creek Ranger Station
    Great Smoky Mountains National Park, Tennessee
    BRANNON STRODE TO THE radio control center, her senses humming, and lifted the mike.
    â€œWhat’re you doing?” Jefferson rose to his feet and moved to the desk, staring at her.
    â€œI’m going to try to get that Bell pilot’s flight plan to see which route they’re taking.” She twisted the knob, changing the radio frequency, and squealed the mike. “RCM986 Tennessee to North Carolina ATC.”
    The radio squalled.
    â€œRCM986 Tennessee to Wilmington ATC, come in, please.”
    Nothing but static filled the air.
    Wind gusted around the ranger station, whistling and whipping against the wood cabin. Brannon tried to hail air traffic control again but with no response. She slammed down the microphone and chewed the skin beside her fingernail. The storms must have knocked out the ranger station’s communication capabilities with ATC.
    â€œWhat’re you thinking?” Steve took a long slurp of coffee, staring at her over the rim of the cup.
    â€œPull up the radar screen.” She nodded toward the computer linked to the National Weather Service. “I want to see where the storm’s moving right now. If that pilot’s any good, he’ll veer off course to avoid the brunt of the blizzard.”
    Steve’s fingers flew over the keyboard until the screen pulled up the latest satellite radar of the storm front. Brannon leaned over his shoulder to study the monitor, inhaling the familiar scent of Old Spice and cigarettes. She traced the straightest path from Wilmington to Knoxville. The worst area of the storm was right in the line she’d drawn.
    â€œThey’re flying right into it!” Jefferson said.
    Brannon shook her head. “Not necessarily.” She tapped the screen again. “Look here. If he alters about forty degrees off course, he’d miss the bulk of it.” She narrowed her eyes. “That would put them right over the Appalachian Trail . . .”—she glanced at her watch and did a quick mental calculation—“in an hour or so.”
    â€œWhat do you want to do?” Lincoln sat on the edge of the desk, letting one leg dangle.
    Straightening, she chewed the hardened skin by her nail again. Steve would go with her judgment. As the pilot, she had the responsibility of making the call. She stared at the screen once more. If that Bell didn’t veer, the helicopter would go down. But any pilot worth his weight would shift off course. Then again, those Life Flight flyboys weren’t always trained for countermaneuvers. Most often they flew local flights—straight shots from one hospital to another. Brannon dropped her hand and sighed. “I don’t know.”
    Lincoln touched her shoulder. “What’s your gut telling you?”
    She closed her eyes, letting her subconscious take over. All she could envision was the helicopter going down in the park, in the storm. No way could they survive the elements if they even survived the crash.