The man Nate was hunting had broken every single one of those tenets, plus he’d physically attacked his wife and threatened his baby. His name was Axel Soledad.
Nate’s legitimate bird abatement business depended solely on his inventory of wild falcons, each of which he’d worked with for hundreds of hours until each raptor was fine-tuned. He’d flown each bird—peregrines, red-tails, prairie falcons, a gyrfalcon, kestrels, and Harris hawks—to develop their particular specialties and to enhance their hardwired skills. His Air Force had been practically wiped out. The three birds that weren’t stolen had been killed and left at the mews. None had escaped.
Not only was his Air Force captive in the vehicle of an outlaw, but his means to make a living and to support his family had been dashed—and that very family had been attacked. Retribution would come.
After Nate had posted an account of it all, the forum had exploded with rage. Many on the site had their own stories to tell about Axel Soledad. Although considered charismatic and a very experienced falconer in his own right, Soledad went against everything the Bal-Chatri community of falconers believed.
The members on the site not only wanted to see Nate recover his birds, they wanted Soledad disappeared by whatever means necessary. Nate didn’t disagree.
So the network looking out for Axel Soledad had been established. One member who called himself “Geronimo Jones” posted he’d seen Soledad and two other associates in downtown Denver. He’d provided Nate with a cell phone number to call once he got there.
Geronimo Jones. Nate already liked him.
* * *
—
Since it was rush hour, the traffic had started to build once Nate drove south past Fort Collins. The Front Range was booming, and there were housing developments on both sides of the highway where open fields had been just a few years before. Economic and cultural refugees from California, Illinois, New York, New Jersey, and other states had recently contributed to an influx of population in Colorado. Nate barely knew the state anymore, even though he’d once lived there in his youth.
Denver had transformed from a large Middle American cow town to a high-tech hipster haven. The Rocky Mountains to the west were still out there, he knew. It was just that the ambient light from the Denver area glowed so brightly ahead of him that the mountains and the stars were washed out by it.
Colorado drivers had gotten worse, not better, than Nate remembered. Many were no doubt newcomers, based on the way they rudely and carelessly weaved through traffic on the highway in the snowfall. He saw a Prius spin out ahead of him and plunge into the median and a Honda Civic do a loop-de-loop across three lanes of traffic and come to a stop backward in the borrow ditch, as if the concept of winter driving was a shocking and unexpected phenomenon.
“Idiots,” he hissed.
* * *
—
After entering the northern suburb of Broomfield, Nate eased to the side of the highway and stopped. Speeding cars whizzed by and covered the side of his van with angry slaps of slush. He punched in the cell phone number from the forum on Blood Feathers.
It was answered after two rings.
“Yeah.” The voice was a deep bass. So deep it almost sounded electronically distorted. Nate’s antennae went up.
“Is this Geronimo Jones?”
“Yeah.”
“This is Nate Romanowski.” Unlike Geronimo Jones, Nate used his real name on the site. He did so because he knew that within the outlaw falconry community, his name meant something.
“Seriously? That Nate Romanowski? For real?”
“Yes.”
“Well, fuck.”
“You said you knew where I could find Axel Soledad.”
“Yeah.”
“I’m in Denver now. Or pretty close, anyway.”
“You’re here now?”
Nate was getting annoyed. “Are you going to help me find him or not?”
There was a long pause. Then: “I’ll text you the address where to meet me. It’s downtown.”
“Tonight?”
“Yeah. But keep your head on a swivel when you get down here. There’s a ruckus going on. Dudes in the street going at it.”
Geronimo Jones punched off and Nate found himself looking at his cell phone as if for a further explanation. Then a text appeared.
It read:
Palomino Lounge, 2211 Corona Street. Speer Blvd. Exit off I-25.
Nate looked behind him for insane drivers, and seeing none, he eased back out onto the interstate.
* * *
—
Nate Romanowski was tall and rangy with a blond ponytail he’d recently considered cutting off because not only was he in his mid-forties, but his daughter, Kestrel, liked to tug on it. He had big hands and a stillness about him that unnerved people. So did his smile, which had often been described as cruel.