"Something like that. I appreciate you bringing the prisoner. We weren't expecting anyone new, so we're a bit surprised." Anders peeks into the cargo hold. "You wouldn't happen to have any beer in there, would you?"
She laughs.
"No, sir." She reaches in and pulls out a duffel. When she opens the zipper, it's full of coffee bags.
"Just this," she says.
"Even better," Anders says. "Thank you."
I look at the prisoner. He's just standing there, with Dalton behind him, monitoring his body language as Anders chats with the pilot.
"Thank you for bringing him," I say. "If you're flying back to Dawson City, skip the casino and check out the Downtown Hotel bar. Ask for the sour toe cocktail."
"There's an actual toe involved, isn't there?"
"It's the Yukon."
She grins. "I'll have to try that. Thank you, ma'am." She tips her hat and then motions to ask if she can pat Storm. I nod, and Storm sits as she sees the hand reach for her head.
"Well trained," she says.
"At her size, she needs to be. She's still a pup."
"Nice." She gives Storm a final pat. "I'll head on out. You folks have a good day. And remember, keep that gag on for as long as you can."
2
The bush plane has left, and we're standing by the hangar. I've opened the letter, and Dalton is reading it over my shoulder while Anders guards the prisoner. Storm lies at my feet, her wary gaze on the stranger.
As usual, Dalton reads faster than me, and I've barely finished the opening paragraph when he says, "Fuck, no. Fucking hell, no."
Anders leans over to see the letter--and the prisoner lunges.
Anders yanks him back, saying, "Yeah, it's not that easy, asshole," and the guy turns to see both Dalton and me with our weapons trained on him, Storm on her feet, growling.
"If you're waiting for us to get distracted and let you run, you'll be waiting a long time," Anders says.
"It wouldn't help anyway," I say. "You're hundreds of miles from the nearest community. Gagged. Bound. Your legs chained." I turn to the guys. "Can we let him go? Please? Lay bets on how far he gets?"
"Nah," Anders says. "Lay bets on what kills him. I vote grizzly."
"Cougar," I say.
"Exposure," Dalton says.
I look at Dalton. "Boring."
"Fine, rabbits."
"But the rabbits haven't killed anyone."
"Yet."
The prisoner watches us, his eyes narrowing, offended that we find his predicament so entertaining.
"On the ground," Dalton says.
The guy lifts his bound hands and extends both middle fingers. My foot shoots out and snags his leg. He drops to his knees.