Rogue Justice (11 page)

Chapter 11

29 March, 5:10 PM AKDT

Sitka, Alaska

Preston Tradd arrived at Rocky Gutierrez Airport tired and out of sorts. Less than twelve hours earlier, he'd been packing up his new Benz S-Class sedan for a spring skiing trip to California's Mammoth Mountain, a vacation he and his wife had been planning for months. It was going to be just the two of them, their eleven-year old son and six-year-old daughter having been dispatched to Grandma's house in Irvine, a short drive from their own home in Huntington Beach. Instead, he'd received an early morning phone call from headquarters, and now here he was, in the wilds of the Alaskan panhandle on a thoroughly disagreeable assignment.

Tradd walked through the lone terminal, curiously eyeing the stuffed heads of long-dead animals that adorned the hallways. They seemed to be staring back at him, as if he were personally responsible for their fate. He passed the Avis car-rental counter, shaking his head disgustedly at the small plastic sign displayed on the back wall:
"A cleaning fee may be charged due to fish smell or having animals in the car or trunk."
For someone who didn't know how to bait a hook or load a rifle—let alone actually kill something—this land of big game reels and double-barreled shotguns was indeed a strange land.

Truth be told, Preston Tradd was a product of privilege. He knew which fork to use and held his wineglass by the stem. He'd grown up in River Oaks, a swanky enclave in the geographic center of Houston, sailed through college, and graduated near the top of his class at Yale Law School. The next fifteen years were spent honing his litigation skills at a prestigious law firm in North Dallas. Now, just a few days shy of his forty-third birthday, he made seven figures as a full partner with Hannah & Associates, LLC.

Headquartered in Dallas, H&A was the most powerful law firm in America no one had ever heard of, its entire operation an enigma. There was no web site, an unlisted phone number, and a shadow client list which included the biggest names in oil, tobacco, insurance, pharmaceuticals, and transportation, among others. The rich and powerful paid healthy retainers to make distasteful, often unsavory problems go away.

And this was one of those.

The bumpy flight from Los Angeles had included stopovers in Seattle and Juneau, where it was delayed by a saucy old broad carrying a hunting crossbow, gold tip arrows, and high-powered scope. She insisted on bringing the weapon on board. Cops had other ideas, but the woman did not go quietly or quickly, causing a two-hour layover. Tradd had put the time to good use, however, downloading a stream of documents on his subject, including a couple of grainy photos. He marveled at the speed and efficiency with which his team of corporate sleuths had assembled such a detailed dossier.

A very fine piece of work.

Except for two nuns, the passengers on the final leg of the trip were all men, most of them wearing red suspenders and plaid shirts. Tradd—dressed in Chinos, loafers, and heavy wool sweater—was doing his best to look the part and fit in. His normal attire, custom made suits, silk shirts, and power ties, would make him stand out like a creature from the
Star Wars
bar scene. He already felt uncomfortable enough; drawing unwanted attention would only add to the misery. He'd had less than half an hour to review the documents, but with his near-photographic memory, the pieces quickly fell into place.

Now thinking back on those few moments, one thing towered above all else: he absolutely, positively had to get this job done right. His client, Mitchell Chandler, was not someone who tolerated anything less. Neither did his lovely, high maintenance wife, bless her heart. On top of that, there were private schools, plastic surgeons, two sets of braces, a new summer home on Lake Arrowhead, and various other financial obligations large and small, mostly large. All in, his monthly nut was more than many working stiffs made in a year. Sure, he could borrow from daddy, but he'd never had to play that card before. And he sure didn't intend to start now.

Tradd walked out of the terminal building into a light drizzle, a black trench coat cradled over one arm. Other than that, all he had with him was a carry-on bag containing his laptop, toiletries, and a change of clothes. Getting in and out of Sitka had been dreadful, leaving him no choice but to stay the night. He could only imagine what the Totem Square Inn must be like. He inhaled deeply, the fishy smell telling him everything he needed to know about America's last frontier.

Just then a Red Explorer pulled up, "Hank's Cab" painted in bold white letters on the side. The driver, a craggy-faced old graybeard, rolled down the window. "Where to, my friend?"

Tradd jumped in the back seat. "Pioneer Bar."

"Sure, the P-Bar. Kind of an institution around here," the driver said, pulling away from the curb. "Partial to Ernie's myself, but then that's just me. Say, bet you didn't know our little metropolis sits smack in the center of a temperate rainforest."

Tradd feigned interest. "You're right, I didn't know that."

"The Tongass, that's what she's called. So we get plenty of the wet stuff around here, if you know what I mean." The driver cleared his throat, coughing a smoker's cough. "Town ain't what she used to be, no sir, not since the big cruise ships started coming. Quarter-million people last year alone. Don't bother me none, good for business in fact. Can't say the same for the missus, though. She's not too fond of all them crowds. Gotta love the scenery though, right, Mister?"

Tradd craned his neck to see out the front window. The state's fourth largest city, population 9,000, was situated on the west side of Baranof Island, flanked by the Pacific Ocean on one side, coldly white-capped mountains on the other. And it was, indeed, spectacular.

Five minutes later, the Explorer pulled up in front of the P-Bar, a white, two-story stucco building in need of a major face-lift. The driver hopped out, opened the back door. Tradd exited next to the sidewalk. He peeled a twenty from a gold-plated money clip and handed over the bill. "Keep the change."

The driver flashed a gap-toothed grin. "Thanks, mister, mighty obliged." He hopped back into the van and drove off, leaving his fare standing in a puddle.

Tradd took a deep breath, tugged on the collar of his coat, and strode confidently toward the front door. Inside, he was met by the smell of stale beer and an assortment of colorful characters, most wearing oversized hoodies, or rain gear. Many of the regulars—at least he assumed they were regulars—hung by the bar marinating their mustaches in pints of Baranof Red Ale, their eyes glued to the Mariners-Blue Jays game playing on two wide-screen TVs. The boys of summer were still in spring training, the season of eternal optimism for baseball fans... especially those of the long-suffering Seattle variety.

Other patrons, further back, congregated around the pool table or dartboard, nearly hidden under thick halos of smoke. There was no law against lighting up in many of Sitka's watering holes, including this classic old place. It had a rustic 50s feel—bright lights, Formica tables, black-and-white-checkered linoleum floors. The walls were covered with framed pictures of local fishing boats and other maritime themes. The music was very loud and very country.

Tradd walked nonchalantly to the bar and ordered a Bud Light on tap, trying to remain as inconspicuous as possible. He took a long pull from the stein, reached into his bag, and grabbed one of the photos he had downloaded. After examining his subject, he darted a look down the long, wooden bar. Through a sea of bodies, he caught a glimpse of her.

And Captain Zora Flynn was truly a sight to behold.

Beautiful,
he thought.
And surely dangerous if provoked.

Chapter 12

29 March, 5:40 PM AKDT

Sitka, Alaska

Zora had arrived at the P-Bar a few minutes earlier. After greeting a few friends and politely declining a seat at the bar, she made her way to the back of the room. Thankfully, no one had mentioned the
Vanity Fair
piece, probably because they hadn't seen it yet, not that this crowd was likely to visit the website anyway. And the print version had just hit newsstands in the lower forty-eight. It would be another few days before the magazine arrived in Sitka. More than six months had now passed since her daring encounter with the marauding shark. The story had spread like jungle telegraph, bringing out the finest barroom performances in fishing villages on both coasts. And when the true champions were done spinning their outrageous tales, the great white had morphed into a beast grander than Moby Dick.

Her latest high-seas adventure had been no less stressful. Sixteen grueling hours after breaking free of the big Norwegian tanker, Zora and crew had arrived in port, exhausted and discouraged. Damage to the engine room, rudder, and aft deck had made it too risky to continue fishing. For the second time in three months, she'd returned to port with an empty fish hold. Adding up all the outlays for gear, fuel, bait, and other fixed costs made the math real simple.

Expenses: forty grand.

Income: zero.

No money, of course, meant no "settling up." She had given the men the day off and completed a few odd jobs on the boat before heading home and collapsing into bed. A few hours later, the phone rang, snapping her out of a deep sleep. The caller refused to identify himself, explain where he'd gotten her number, or how he even knew she was in town. He said only that it was urgent they meet in person and that he would be arriving in Sitka in a matter of hours. She asked from where. He wouldn't say. She asked why. Same response. Her next instinct had been to hang up, but there was something in the man's voice that tugged hard at her gut. And her gut was almost always right. After running through several other options, none of which seemed particularly appealing, she'd finally agreed. She told him to meet her here.

Zora now sat at a small table tucked into an out-of-the-way nook in back, nursing a beer, her stomach doing back-flips. Why, she wasn't exactly sure, yet for some reason she felt strangely alone in this very public place, her mood darker than an Alaskan winter night. Moments later, she saw him, a self-absorbed little peacock weaving his way through the boisterous crowd. With his casual attire and Gordon Gekko haircut, the man looked like he just stepped out of a J. Crew catalog.

The guy's obviously trying to fit in,
she thought,
and failing miserably.

His progress was momentarily halted by members of the Seattle Firefighters Pipes and Drums in town for the annual Sitka Cancer Survivors charity auction. Zora had already done her part, buying a lovely hand-quilted bedspread crafted by a neighbor who'd recently undergone six grueling weeks of radiation for breast cancer. The bagpipers finished their warm-up and the team's lone female informed patrons their performance would be starting in twenty minutes.

The short, wafer-thin man swam through the maze of bodies and approached her table. "Ms. Flynn," he said. "I'm late, I apologize." He pulled up a chair and set his coat and bag on the floor. Flashing a counterfeit smile, he then explained why his flight had been delayed. "Never seen anything like it in my life," he added. "The old gal was armed to the teeth."

"Yeah, imagine that," Zora replied in a surly tone. "Listen, I don't have a lot of time. You said it was urgent, so why don't you tell me who you are and what this is all about."

"Well, I need to remain anonymous for reasons that will become clear, and yes, it is most definitely urgent. Rather delicate too. It would be much better if we talked privately. Shall we take a little walk?"