"A few days ago, you picked up a man at a remote lake about two hundred miles from here and took him to hook up with a floatplane from Northern Hunting Expeditions. I want to know who that man was."
Starr had taken up a position just inside the doorway and five feet off to the side. His hand was inside his jacket on the butt of his nine-millimeter Glock, a pistol that Styles didn't particularly care for but Starr swore by.
"I wouldn't have any way of knowing just who you was talking about. We run three choppers, and it could have been any one of the three."
Styles's voice took on a razor-sharp edge. "I don't have the time or patience to ask you again. Who is the guy you ferried from that lake to the floatplane?"
"I don't give a fuck about your time or patience. Get the hell out."
Styles instructed Starr, "Check the building for any security cameras and the recorder or computer. Grab all of it." He looked back at the large man standing across the counter with an angry look on his face. Standing at least three inches over Styles and outweighing him by at least sixty pounds, he was badly underestimating Styles.
"All right, you want it hard, you got it hard," he snarled. When he came from behind the counter, he had a large hunting knife in his hand.
Styles backed away from the counter and stood still, letting the man approach him. He moved at Styles straight on, his right hand wielding the knife shot straight out at Styles's midsection. Styles turned to his left slightly, grabbed the man's wrist with his left hand, turned it over to the point of breaking, and then placed his right hand at the man's locked elbow, and using leverage caused by the wrist lock, he forced the man to one knee. "Drop the knife, or I shatter your elbow."
"Fuck you," the man growled.
Styles dug his left thumb into the nerve mass of the man's held wrist, which instantly caused it to spasm. The knife fell to the floor.
"Last chance."
The man tried to get up despite the pain. Styles drew his fist back six inches and drove it through the side of the man's locked elbow, ninety degrees of the opposite direction in which elbows are designed to pivot. The snapping of the joint could be heard across the building. The scream might have been heard across town. Styles grabbed the man by his throat and slammed him up against the cabinet that held the service desk. The man never saw where Styles's own knife came from. It just materialized right in front of his eyes, which appeared ready to bulge out of his head.
"I'm going to ask you again; if you don't tell me, I'll cut off an ear and then the other; I will carve you up like a Halloween pumpkin. Now who was this man?"
"I don't know his name; he was some kind of raghead. Sammy set up the deal."
"Who's Sammy?"
"My partner. He's on a flight right now," he choked out.
"Call him. Get me the man's name."
"I can't. No service up there."
"Use the radio."
"It probably won't work. He's three hundred miles out."
"Try," ordered Styles.
"I don't think I can walk."
"If your ass isn't on that radio in ten seconds I'm going to shatter your knee. Then you won't ever walk right again."
With a legitimate painful effort, the man struggled to move his feet. He was cradling his right arm, which was bent at a very unnatural angle. Styles grabbed the suspenders of his coveralls and helped him walk and then perched him on a stool in front of the radio.
"I'm familiar with aviation lingo, so don't say something stupid."
"6140 Charlie, this is base. Come back," the man said into the microphone. "Sammy, come back; it's an emergency." No response. "Sammy, come back. Emergency."
A voice emitted weakly from the speaker. "Yeah, I barely hear you, what's the problem?"
"There's a guy here needs the name of that raghead guy we flew in a few days ago and dropped off at Northern's floatplane. What's his name?"
"What business is it of his?" was the answer.
"Just give me the fucking name, or he's gonna slit my throat. Quit fucking around and give me the name."
"Who is this guy?"
Styles took the mike. "Give me the name, or when you get back, your friend's head will be sitting on the counter, minus his body. You've got five seconds."
"I don't have a name, just a credit card number. You can find it. It's filed under Northern Hunting. It'd be the last one run. Who the fuck are you?"
"Someone you don't want to cross. If this doesn't check out, you're both dead."
Starr came back from the office with the manila folder marked "Northern Hunting." "Got a credit card slip dated six days ago, prepaid. Name is a corporation from Portland, Oregon. No security cameras. What about him?"
Styles looked at the man hard. "You or your partner ever breathe a word we were here, there's no place I won't find you. Now I need to put you to sleep for a while." He instantly put the man in a rear choke hold, and in ten seconds, he was out.
"I'm surprised you didn't kill him," said Starr.
"So am I."
"Where to now?" Starr asked.
"Back to the plane, I think. Looks like we're heading back to Portland. Call J. C., and tell him we're on our way. Get hold of Phillips; have her meet us there."
"On it." Thirty seconds later, Starr informed Styles, "Phillips is already on her way. Girl is a workhorse."
"Yeah, she is. We'll have her check out this credit card and go from there."
Phillips was there when Starr and Styles arrived. Starr gave her and J. C. a quick rundown on what had happened at Inland Helicopter. Phillips grabbed the credit card slip, boarded the plane, and was back at her computer station, fingers flashing over her keyboard.
They were forty-five minutes out of Bethel when Phillips called Starr and Styles back to her workstation.
Styles asked her, "You get any sleep?"
"Enough for now. Here's what I came up with. This credit card tracks through six different corporations but ends at some company named Petroleum Assets. They sell refinery equipment and employ interesting personnel. One is Nazir al-Hadid. He appears to be the brother, or maybe nephew, of one Ami al-Hadid, who I believe had the misfortune of meeting Styles. His is the only name of familiarity. One other interesting prospect is Rijah Ellhad. He has flown back and forth six times in two years. He's an ex-captain in Saddam's Republican Guard." She paused and looked up. "Funny. Seems to be a lot of connections within certain groups." She continued, "They both appear to frequent Portland, Oregon, but I haven't established who or exactly why. Something else I found were other purchases charged to the same card. For someone who I would think would want to stay hidden, somebody is either very careless or very stupid."
"What was the card used for?" Styles asked.
"Rental car taken out ten days ago on a monthly lease. Five prepaid cell phones. Camping gear. And this is interesting, a rubber diving suit with full-face hood, but no mask, fins, or anything else."
"Maybe he already has that," offered Starr.
"Maybe. I just think it's odd."
"Where did he purchase this stuff?" Starr wanted to know.
"A big camping and recreation store in Portland. He bought it yesterday. The wet suit, anyway. The camping stuff was purchased six days ago."
Styles spoke up. "That would explain the trip to Alaska. He knew what he needed. The wet suit has me wondering."
"Sounds like he's planning a swim," stated Phillips.
"Or maybe for protection from something other than water," replied Styles.
"You think that this guy might be behind all this?" Starr asked, surprised.
"Not behind it, but the deliveryman. If someone is going to use this new whatever-the-hell-it-is as a terrorist act, somebody has to do something to get it started. Doesn't that make sense? So maybe a wet suit is adequate protection for whatever reason, maybe up until a certain point. I'd guess before it is somehow activated. From what we saw from Phillips's video and other info, we've learned that water somehow does that."