“Our client owes us money.”
“I got that. But if he’s covertly following us, obviously we knew nothing about it.”
“It’s a lot of money.” He scowls. “Lyd—Lynn cut a shitty deal. Twenty-five percent up front. Seventy-five on pickup.”
So this guy got someone at the airport to let him know if our plane returned, which it had today. Then he bullied Lydia into coming after us to see what happened to their client. It was obvious from the encounter at Dalton’s truck that she knew this was a stupid idea.
“Our client paid a lot to come after you,” our captive says. “That means something’s going on. Something worth you guys paying me the rest of my money to keep my mouth shut.”
“What do you think we’re doing? Running a meth lab in the wilderness?”
“I don’t know but—”
“Think,” I say. “Stop and think really, really hard. It’s the Yukon. No one is running an off-the-grid drug lab in the forest. No one is keeping a warehouse of guns out there.”
“Mining,” he says. “You have a rich find—”
“Do we look like miners to you? Could it possibly be something even more secret and completely legal? Like a matter of national security?” I lower my face to his. “Do you know the penalty for treason?”
“W-what? No. Even if it is government work, following you guys isn’t treason.”
“Bringing a foreign operative to a government facility is.”
“What?” His voice rises.
“Oh, did an American secret agent fail to disclose his status to you? What a surprise. Did he look like a miner? Like a drug lord? Gunrunner? Or, now that you think about it, did he look more like a cop? Or a soldier? Something about the way he talked. The way he carried himself. The way he dressed.”
The man pales. Then he shakes his head vehemently. “He never said anything about being a…”
When he trails off, Dalton says, “Yeah, spies don’t go around introducing themselves. My partner here is pissed, but you can relax. The situation was handled. We sent him on his way.”
“He had a second pilot for the flight out,” I say. “If you want to file a formal complaint to the Canadian government, you just need to tell them what you did. I’m sure they’ll have something to say about that.”
“I-I had no idea there was a government facil—”
“We didn’t say that,” I say.
“Nope, we did not say that,” Dalton says. “But if we hear that completely untrue rumor being whispered around Dawson, we’ll know who to talk to.”
The guy actually buys our story. Now, I love my country, but it’s not exactly known for its high-end military programs. Turns out, though, that our guy is quite the patriot, and he goes on at length about how thrilled he is to hear that Canada is taking our national security so seriously because, you know, we normally just rely on the States to protect us. As far as he is concerned, this is a step in the right direction—well, it would be if there was a facility up here, nudge, nudge, wink, wink. But if there is, then he is so very sorry for anything he might have done to endanger it, and he will definitely do his patriotic duty by keeping his mouth shut.
His attitude toward us does a one-eighty, too. We’re no longer a couple of low-life criminals stiffing him on a job. We’re … I have no idea what we are now, in his mind, but whatever it is, it’s terribly cool. He praises me for my skills—my tracking and my throw-down and my dirt bike riding and, “Wait, did you hitch a ride in my truck bed? That is awesome.” He even compliments Dalton on his boots, which are … regular boots. And the fact that you two did all this without pulling a gun? That is so fucking awesome. Go, Canada!
His attitude well and truly adjusted, he’s happy to talk. His airport contact is a guy who does part-time groundskeeping, and please don’t give him any grief, because he knew nothing about the scheme. Our captive told the groundskeeper that he’d noticed Dalton flying in and out, and he’d love to pitch his own bush-plane taxiing services, so if his buddy would let him know when Dalton came in again, he’d really appreciate that.
The client approached them through Lydia. Our guy doesn’t want to say what Lydia does for a living. Whatever business she’s in, it’s not one where you ask potential clients a lot of questions. Mark Garcia said he wanted to follow a plane that regularly flew in and out of Dawson. The next time it arrived, he needed to be called immediately, and he needed a pilot waiting when he arrived in Dawson, so he could follow the plane on its exit trip. For that, he promised ten grand. For a name, he’d given Mark Marshall. Cute.
So, Garcia worked in Washington State. He got the call Wednesday when we arrived in Dawson, heading to Vancouver for April. We did the quickest turnaround possible getting back to Dawson, but that’s not exactly speedy, given the infrequency of flights. He’d have had time to drive overnight Wednesday to Calgary, fly to Whitehorse, drive up to Dawson, and be waiting for us when we picked up the plane late Thursday.
Next we have a tire to change. Our captive does that for us. Very happily does it, and when Dalton gives him a hundred bucks, he’s stammering and blushing, like we’ve just paid him for a very different kind of service.
“No, really, I shouldn’t,” he says. “We slashed it. Hell, if you guys want me to cover a new tire, I’ll do that, too.”
Dalton sticks the money into the guy’s shirt pocket. “It was a misunderstanding. I understand. You’re out a helluva lot of money. That asshole stiffed you.”
“Americans,” I say, rolling my eyes.
The guy snickers. “They’re always giving us the shaft, huh?” He goes off on a brief diatribe, and we let him, nodding where appropriate.