“Probably not,” Tristan said. “Plus, he doesn’t communicate by text because someone might intercept it.”
“Sticks to threads on encrypted sites, then?”
“Yes.”
Gernonimo suddenly looked up. “Who selects the items in the weapons caches he leaves?” he asked.
“Axel, I guess,” Tristan said. “It’s not like we place an order or anything.”
Nate was confused by the question.
“I’m keeping your phone,” Geronimo declared.
Tristan’s reaction was visceral. He thrashed and tried to kick out of his bindings. “No—you can’t take it. You have no right to take my phone,” he shouted.
“You don’t have any rights on my property,” Geronimo said. He patted his shotgun and arched his eyebrows when he said it.
“Please, don’t do that,” Tristan begged. There were tears in his eyes.
“Why is he going to Seattle?” Nate asked.
Tristan said, “There’s a lot going on up there, man. A lot brewing right now. We’ve got the fascist Nazis on the run up there. It’s the place to be.” Then: “Can you give me back my phone?”
* * *
—
They’d left Tristan Richardson on the side of US 287 near Tie Siding, Wyoming. There wasn’t a single building in sight and the only man-made objects were electrical transmission lines in the distance and wind turbines in various stages of construction. The wind howled and rocked the van.
Nate watched Tristan fade to a tiny black dot in his rearview mirror.
He said to Geronimo, “I’m kind of surprised how few antifas there were in Denver. I thought there was more.”
“Not really,” Geronimo said. “People out there think there are thousands of them in every city. But from what I can tell, there’s just a loud few. Like I said, they could be rounded up in one night, but it doesn’t happen.”
“You have a really nice house and I like your falcon setup.”
Geronimo had two impressive mottled white gyrfalcons in perfect physical condition. Gyrfalcons were the largest of all North American raptors.
“You mean, how can a Black brother my age afford such a nice spread?”
“No, because you make a living offering protection to Denver bars. And don’t use that race crap on me. It won’t fly.”
Geronimo chuckled. He winked. “Yeah, okay, nature boy.” Then: “Jacinda’s from Chicago. Her mom invented Afro Chic. Ever heard of it?”
Nate recalled the name from tubes of hair-care goo that had annoyed him in his bathroom at home. “I have.”
“She sold it to Procter and Gamble a few years back and she gave all her kids a nice trust fund,” Geronimo said. “I hit the jackpot marrying her.”
“I know the feeling,” Nate said. “And now you’re expecting your first child.”
“Uh-huh. I’m still trying to wrap my mind around that development.”
“Boy or girl?”
“We don’t want to know, but I’d guess that Jacinda will give in at some point and we’ll find out.”
“I’ve got a little girl,” Nate said. “Kestrel.”
Geronimo grinned at that. “Smallest falcon in the species. I like that. Does she boss you around?”
“She’s got me wrapped around her finger,” Nate said. “She’s another reason why I have to find Soledad and take him down. He frightened her and she hid from him. I don’t know what would have happened if he’d found her. I can’t even think about it.”
“So what about you?” Geronimo asked. “Tell me about your business now that you’ve supposedly gone straight.”
Nate did. He said the bird abatement business was growing every year and that Yarak, Inc. was getting calls from as far away as Southern California and Michigan to get rid of problem birds infesting farms, zoos, wineries, and large-scale industrial facilities. Liv ran the day-to-day operations of the business and Nate oversaw the deployment of falcons. They’d recently hired Sheridan Pickett as an apprentice falconer.
Geronimo asked, “Is it true that when you put a peregrine in the sky, all the shitbirds like starlings see it and run for the hills?”
“It’s true,” Nate said. “All they have to do is see the silhouette of the falcon in the sky. It’s imprinted into their DNA that if they don’t leave the area immediately, they’ll die a horrible death. Which they will. So that alone usually does the trick.”