C. Box - Endangered

Nate nodded.

“You know what it means, right?”

“I’m offering myself up as bait.”

“Correcto,” Dudley said. “We’re assuming Templeton isn’t too pleased with you for blowing up his operation. If he knows you’re out on the street, we think he’ll come after you. That’s when we’ll nail him. So, yes, ‘bait’ is a good word for it.”

Nate had crossed the line the year before. He had willingly become a part of a high-class murder-for-hire operation with the understanding that only elite society’s untouchable scum would be targeted. Nate had wholly approved of the concept. Templeton ran the operation from his remote Black Hills ranch in Medicine Wheel County, Wyoming. But Templeton had overreached and the operation had gone sour. Nate had realized too late what had happened and he’d been the catalyst in Templeton’s final undoing. Templeton got away in one of his private planes, along with his new fiancée: Joe Pickett’s mother-in-law, Missy Vankueren. Their whereabouts were unknown.

Nate had discerned that the FBI wanted Templeton bad due to political pressure placed on them by members of the administration who’d had friends and crony capitalist colleagues “disappeared” by Templeton’s operation. He’d heard there were cabinet secretaries as well as the attorney general himself who wanted revenge, and they were willing to influence the prosecution of Nate to expedite it. He was to become a tool of the same elites Templeton had targeted. At the same time, Nate had no doubt that Templeton was under pressure from former clients—many of whom were prominent in government and industry—to eliminate the threat of Nate ever talking about the operations he knew about and had been personally involved in.

“There are other terms,” Dudley said. “You already know about not carrying a weapon so we won’t go there again. Oh—and this: ‘Subject waives his rights to access the federal witness relocation project.’ That means if Templeton turns up the heat and comes after you, you can’t come crying to us to hide you away.”

Nate gritted his teeth. He said, “I’ve never gone crying to anyone about anything.”

Dudley smiled and went on to the next item.

“‘Subject agrees to commit no more crimes in the state of Wyoming.’”

Nate snorted at that.

“That was Governor Rulon’s provision,” Dudley said. “He said he did some research and a former governor of Wyoming made the same deal with Butch Cassidy before he released him from the territorial prison over in Laramie. Apparently, Butch was an honorable outlaw and he never committed another crime in Wyoming, even though he used to use the state as his hideout. It seems like a stupid provision to me, but the governor insisted. Are you as honorable an outlaw as Butch Cassidy?”

Nate’s face didn’t twitch.

“Oh, and this is mine,” Dudley said, looking up. “‘Subject agrees to have no more contact with one Joe Pickett of Twelve Sleep County—or his family.’”

“ What? That wasn’t there earlier,” Nate said angrily.

Years before, Nate had made a pact with Joe to watch out for the Picketts after Joe managed to get Nate released from jail for a crime he didn’t commit. Since then, they’d been through a lot together and it was Joe who’d convinced Nate to turn himself in after the Templeton scheme blew up. It wasn’t a vow he was willing to break.

“I just added that this morning,” Dudley said. “It’s for your own protection and for ours. I talked to the DOJ and I pointed out that every time you get involved with that friend of yours, people end up dead. I know it, you know it, everybody in the state knows it. This will prevent that from happening until we’ve nailed Templeton. Maybe after that, we can revisit the language.”

“I won’t agree to it,” Nate said. “You can’t put in terms that weren’t negotiated earlier.”

“We can do whatever we want,” Dudley said, thrusting out his jaw. “We’re the government.”

Nate smoldered. He had relented on every point over months and he was minutes away from being released. Now this.

“What about my right to freedom of association?” Nate said.

“I think we went over that rights thing already,” Dudley said impatiently.

“Joe is a good man. I’m obligated to him.”

“Not anymore.”

“You can’t do this.”

“Do I have to say it again?”

—

“AND THE LAST THING,” Dudley said. “‘Subject agrees to go seek legitimate employment.’ That’s right—you need to go straight. Meaning you’ll actually get a job, go to work, pay your taxes, and exist like a normal human being until Templeton decides to find you. This, for you, might be the toughest thing of all.”

“It’s not,” Nate countered.

Dudley leaned back and arched his eyebrows. “Are you gonna tell me this falconry business you dreamed up is actually going to work?”

“Yes.”

“What is it you plan to do again?”

Nate said, “There are people out there who have a need for falconry services, mainly for the purpose of chasing off problem species. Over the years, invasive bird species have been introduced throughout North America and they’ve multiplied by the millions. We’re talking about starlings, English sparrows, house finches, Eurasian collared doves. Their populations have exploded. Crows and pigeons are always a problem, too.

“Refineries don’t want pigeons roosting in their equipment. Ranchers don’t want starlings taking over their barns and pooping on their livestock. Growers don’t want starlings and crows eating their produce. All these birds are terrified of certain predators like peregrines or gyrfalcons. They know and fear a falcon’s silhouette in the sky even if they’ve never actually seen a real raptor—it’s imprinted in their DNA. They know that if a falcon is around, they better leave the premises or they’ll get smacked. Starlings will travel a hundred miles to avoid a falcon in the sky. Hiring an experienced falconer costs a lot less than trying to poison or shoot the pest birds, or to rig up netting or spikes or whatever. That’s what I’m going to do.”

Dudley rolled his eyes. He said, “And this girlfriend of yours has it all organized and ready to go?”

Nate nodded. He’d met Liv Brannan in Medicine Wheel County and they’d connected instantly. Liv had a sharp business mind and the capital from years of working for Templeton to launch Yarak, Inc., a falconry services enterprise. He couldn’t wait to see her. She had milk-chocolate skin, big brown eyes, and a trim figure, and she was smart as a whip. She had spent hours convincing him through the Plexiglas window of the visiting room that he should negotiate his way out of jail—and that she’d be waiting for him. They’d go straight together, she’d said.

Liv had talked to proprietors of other falconry outfits around the country and learned that experienced master falconers could make $400 to $750 per day from winegrowers, refinery owners, farmers, ranchers, and other commercial operators. She’d obtained the equipment, registered the new company with the Wyoming secretary of state, filed the tax forms, set up a website, and had already begun marketing Yarak, Inc.

The classic falconry definition of yarak was a Turkish phrase describing the peak condition of a falcon to fly and hunt. It was described as “full of stamina, well muscled, alert, neither too fat nor too thin, perfect condition for hunting and killing prey. This state is rarely achieved but a wonder to behold when observed.”

“It sounds like a stupid idea to me,” Dudley said.

“That’s why I hate explaining a business plan to a bureaucrat who’s never worked in the private sector in his life.”