But Anchorage was a large, sprawling metropolis—perhaps not on the same level as NYC or Chicago, but it was still a thriving city with well over three hundred thousand residents, almost half the population of the entire state. The great thing about the apartment was it offered him a place to stay in the city—and have this incredible and majestic view of the white-tipped Chugach Mountains rising in the distance—without having to live here full-time.
Thanks to his enterprising antecedents, his family owned a sprawl of property between Anchorage and Seward, a vast tangle of family homes, a horse farm and a sled dog–breeding facility. His sister and her husband managed the estate, so he could live in both worlds—he even had a pair of the best dogs anyone could ask for.
He was, he knew, a damned lucky man.
Albeit a haunted one, because he could never shake certain images...
Lucky, he told himself firmly. Every man out there, every woman, too, lived with things that tore at them.
He shook off the feelings the dream had wrapped around him.
In his free time, he could head out to what was still pristine wilderness. He could spend countless hours in the national parks and encounter wildlife like he could in few other places.
He wasn’t a hunter. The only way he shot things in his spare time was with a camera. His day-to-day life had enough to do with violence.
He heard his cell phone ringing and headed back into the bedroom to snatch it up off his bedside table. His partner, Mike Aklaq, was on the other line.
“You ready, friend?”
“If you call standing in my shorts, drinking coffee and looking out windows ready, then I’m ready.”
“Cool. You’re always Mr. Early. Today I’m on the move. Coming to get you—got a call to rush it this morning.”
“Oh?”
“Just hop in the shower quick. We’re wanted down the road in Seward.”
“What’s going on?”
“Quit talking and shower. Put on something more than your briefs—Special Director Enfield will meet us at the airport.”
“Airport? Seward isn’t even a three-hour drive and only private—”
“Helicopter is waiting for us. I’m almost there. Hey, I’m pretty sure I’m along for the ride on this. Enfield thinks you’re the man for this situation.”
“What the hell is the situation?”
“I don’t even know yet. Just get cracking, eh?”
Thor didn’t say anything more; he hung up and hurried to get ready.
He managed a shave and shower in less than ten minutes. When he emerged—in his blue suit, Glock in the little leather holster at the back of his waistband—Mike was in his apartment.
“Hell, you must have been downstairs when you called,” Thor said.
Mike grinned. “I was. I figured you had coffee—you always have coffee.”
Mike was a big guy with broad shoulders and cheekbones to match. His dad was Native American; his mom had come up to Alaska with her father when he’d worked the pipeline. Mike was one of ten kids, all of them tall and good-looking. Thor and he made a good, colorful team, Thor often thought. He actually had Aleut blood himself. It was from a great-grandmother, while the rest of his family had hailed from Norway and it showed. He was bronzed just because he loved the sun; his hair was lighter than flax and his eyes were a blue only a little darker than ice.
They’d been partners three years in Alaska. Thor had done time in both the New York City and Miami offices while Mike had worked in Chicago and DC. Both of them had asked for the Alaska assignment—a different kind of job, for the most part. They were members of the criminal task division; in the three years they’d been working, most of their cases had been a matter of doggedly following clues and collaborating with Canadian and other US agents.
They headed downstairs. Thor knew that Mike was going to drive—he had the official car and the keys. They both preferred their own driving.
“What time did Enfield call you?” Thor asked when they were on the road.
“Six. He just said shake a leg and get to the airfield, and he’d meet us there. Man, it doesn’t bode well, him calling like that—when we were due in anyway.”
Thor nodded, feeling uncomfortable. The reality of the dream had faded—in his field, nightmares occurred in the darkness and the light. He’d always known that you had to live with the losses as well as the triumphs. But his dad—who was still with the Alaska State Troopers—had once put it into perspective for him by noting, You’ll never stop the flow of evil that some men will do, but each time you save one innocent, you make it all worthwhile.
So he had dreams.
Nightmares.
He woke up and shook them off.
But now, the dream that had plagued him right before he had awakened that morning seemed like some kind of a foreboding.
That feeling increased when they reached the airfield and saw Special Director Reginald Enfield there, waiting for them.
Enfield was a solid, no-nonsense director—a good man in his office. He’d had a kneecap shot out and knew he wasn’t fit for fieldwork, but he could analyze a situation like few other men and collect invaluable information with his group of techs. That he was at the airfield meant they were onto something serious.