Paul was happy for Jack. Now, he wanted it to be his fight against the elusive northern pikes of the Raquette River. He scanned his tip-ups—his eyes darting from one and then the next, hoping to see one of the bright orange flags waving at him. When he focused on the furthest one, something else caught his attention—movement in the woods. He assumed it was a deer, browsing through the evergreens, but then realized that the shadow was coming toward them, and it was on two legs.
“Looks like we’re not going to be alone today,” Paul nodded toward the woods. He didn’t want to stare at the man tentatively approaching—something about it seemed rude. He dropped his head and looked back at the tip-up that Jack was resetting. Blood from the thrashing fish had pooled adjacent to the hole. Diluted by the snow, the blood turned pink and spread across the ice in an area the size of a platter and Paul was standing right in it.
Chapter 6 / The Inspection
Ozzy was behind the control wheel of the Beechcraft A-36 flying south from Canada to New York. His only companion, Mason Blankenship, did not speak a single word all morning. The two occupants of the plane were both armed. Ozzy’s side holster carried a .38 Special Taurus revolver. The sidearm was nothing fancy and came straight out of the box with no customization. Blankenship sat in the middle of the plane trying to doze off. His HK-416 leaned against the seat next to him. Foster sunglasses shaded his eyes, and he slunk down with his arms folded across his chest. It was difficult for the tall man to get comfortable within the confines of the aircraft. As cramped as he was, he was glad he was not sitting in the pilot’s seat with all the flight controls, switches, and the yoke that cramped the cockpit. Blankenship often joked about planes being built by the Keebler Elves. Ozzy, with his small frame and thin arms, seemed to have plenty of space and looked comfortable at the controls. Luckily for Blankenship, the entire flight was only going to take about 82 minutes.
The first leg of the flight was from Ottawa to Bettinger Airport. International law required the Beechcraft to land at Bettinger for inspection. Once they touched down, the plane, pilot’s license, passports, and all documents would be inspected. Ozzy wasn’t worried about the inspection at Bettinger Airport because he knew the crooked Customs and Border Protection agent, Kyle Greene, would be performing the inspection. Carl Skiff had been paying off Greene for eight years, allowing his planes in and out of the U.S. without a thorough inspection or any hassle. The pilots just needed to tolerate Greene’s cocky attitude and the verbal thrashings he liked to dish out.
Ozzy reduced the throttle, and the single-engine plane began to descend as it crossed over the St. Lawrence River, which divided the two countries. The river was a major shipping channel for both countries, and its surface was solid ice this time of the year, which forced the shipping season to be closed for the year. In the distance, Ozzy could see several state trooper cars racing up the highway toward the Saint-Regis Mohawk Reservation, their crimson lights flashing at high speed on the unusually desolate highway that ran parrelel to the river. Being a Saturday and a holiday, the lack of traffic made it easy for the police cars to zoom out of sight. Ozzy turned his attention back to his flight controls. He assumed there was probably an accident since the snow still plugged most of the secondary roads. He would never know the truth—that the police were called to the reservation to investigate the murder of a young Native-American male who was last seen smuggling a Canadian across the border.
Ozzy radioed the air traffic controller for the airport, which was in Burlington, Vermont. Bettinger International was too small to have an air traffic controller of their own, so all air traffic was controlled from a city 80 miles to the southeast.
“Burlington tower, Beechcraft Charlie Frank Bill Zebra Adam, one eight zero north inbound for landing with Bettinger,” Ozzie spoke into his headset.
“Roger that, Beechcraft. You have permission and are clear for landing. Please proceed at two five zero, runway one left,” an anonymous voice replied.
“Roger, Burlington tower. Beechcraft Charlie Frank Bill Zebra Adam proceeding to runway one left.”
The wheels hit the tarmac of Bettinger International Airport at 7:25 am. Not their final destination, Bettinger was a small airport with only three outgoing flights per day that would accommodate nine passengers per flight if fully booked. And the planes only flew to three destinations—Boston, Syracuse, and Albany.
Ozzy brought the Beechcraft A-36 to a stop 200 yards from the terminal. The inspection would take place near the hanger. Ozzy wished they could have just flown straight to their destination, but all planes were required to stop for inspection by Customs and Border Protection when crossing into the Unitied States. Since their flight plan had been submitted hours ago, two Customs agents were already waiting for them to land.
A white and blue SUV was parked inside the chain-link fence that kept the general public from accessing the hanger area. The headlights were on while the engine ran and the windshield wipers cleaned the falling snow that tried accumulating on the glass. Ozzy throttled down and killed the plane’s engine and waited in the cockpit for the officers to approach.
Officer Kyle Greene sat behind the wheel of the Chevy Tahoe. His partner, Officer Dishaw, watched Ozzy land and bring the plane toward the hanger through a set of Nikon binoculars.
“This our guy?” Dishaw asked.
“This is our guy,” Greene answered. He was chewing on a toothpick and thumbing through his phone. An officer with Customs and Border Protection for almost 20 years, Greene was calm and patient as he waited to go perform the inspection. Dishaw had 18 months under his belt with the government agency, and the two of them had been partners for almost as long. Dishaw had somehow earned Greene’s trust, and the two were usually the only officers assigned to do flight inspections.
Greene stepped out of the Tahoe and slipped on a dark blue ball cap with an agency logo embroidered on the front. His pants and shirt matched the hat, but his winter jacket was black. The ballcap resting on his head was six and a half feet off the ground. If he were to step on a pair of scales, he’d barely get over 170, but the bulletproof vest, thick winter jacket, and belt that holstered his pistol and gear made him look like he was 230. He marched toward the plane, carrying a clipboard in one hand.
Dishaw was younger. He was tall and athletic but standing next to Greene made him appear of normal height. He wore the same uniform as Greene and stayed one step behind him as the two made their way to the parked plane. Greene motioned for Ozzy to step out of the plane.
“Jesus, Ozzy, what the hell are you doing flying a nice plane like this?” Greene teased as Ozzy exited the cockpit door on the right side of the plane.
Ozzy stood on the right wing pointing with this thumb. “This piece o’ shit? Thought it was a good plane, but the fucking altimeter just shit out on me, and a windshield wiper is about to fall off.”
“Oh, well then, you should fail your inspection and call Uber to get your ass home,” Greene threatened rhetorically as he signed the inspection form. He was focused on the inspection form and paperwork on the metal clipboard. Greene filled out the form without looking at any documents other than Ozzy’s pilot license—only because he needed to record the license number. When he finished initialing here and signing there, he swung the clipboard with a backhand motion into Dishaw’s chest, who took the clipboard without giving it a glance.
“So, let’s go see what’s on the plane. You wait with Dishaw. Oh, by the way,” Greene said, pointing the used toothpick at Ozzy and then to Dishaw, “Ozzy, this is officer Dishaw. Officer Dishaw, this is nobody,”
“Screw you, Greene…and the horse you blew to get this job,” Ozzy said.
“Skiff’s goon inside, Ozzy?” Greene asked. He was pointing with the toothpick at the silhouette in the window.
“Mason? Yeah, I think he’s asleep, so don’t surprise him, lad. He’s got that HK loaded and an itchy trigger finger. And he hasn’t had his morning donut yet.”
Greene opened the
cargo door, bent his 6’6” frame, and squeezed into the plane so he would be out of sight. He hated getting on planes with his height. Once inside, he couldn’t stand up, so he squatted while resting his arm on a small table that folded down.
Mason Blankenship appeared to be sleeping in the rear-facing seat behind the copilot's chair. His dark Foster sunglasses hid his steely eyes, but a faint smile told Greene the security brute was fully awake.
“Good Morning, Mr. Blankenship,” Greene said. He knew Blankenship loved to get respect from people. It made him feel like more than just a bodyguard and a hired gun. Since he was nearly as tall as Greene and far deadlier with weapons or his hands, Greene gave him all the respect he wanted.
“Morning, Mr. Greene,” Blankenship returned the respect. Greene noticed a silver case in the seat adjacent to the lone passenger.
“Well, everything looks good on board,” Greene observed. “I don’t see any illegal immigrants, can’t smell any drugs, and everybody has their passports. You do have your passport, don’t you, Mr. Blankenship?”
Blankenship’s chiseled smile stayed intact. He leaned over to the silver case, set four numbers on the tumbler, and unlocked it. The case was loaded with American currency—all one-hundred dollar bills. On top of the money sat a manilla envelope with a name hand-written in black marker: “Greene.” Blankenship passed the envelope to Greene, “Yes, Sir. Right here.”
Greene took the envelope, peeked inside at the contents and guessed it was about $6,000—exactly what he expected. “Looks like all your paperwork is in order, Mr. Blankenship. You enjoy the rest of your flight.” With that, he stepped out through the cargo doors, holding his back in pain. He slapped Ozzy on the back, “Everything appears to be in order, Ozzy. You may continue your flight. Just wait for clearance from the terminal before you take off.”
“Yeah…thanks, Lad,” Ozzy replied. “Suppose you’ll be heading to the casino for the rest of the day, huh?”
“I wish. I’m heading back to the reservation, alright, but not to play blackjack. We had a homicide out there last night. A young smuggler, Moonie Swamp, was shot bringing an illegal across the Ice Bridge. The guy must have turned on him. Stole his truck, too. Too bad, Moonie was a good kid. He’s earned me quite a bit of extra cash over the last few years.”
“Bloody hell, Greene, is there anybody around here not paying you off?” Ozzy asked.
“Yeah…your mother. She’s free, asshole.” Greene handed the envelope to Dishaw. Dishaw’s eyes and smile widening simultaneously as he peeked inside. Greene continued talking to Ozzy, “Seriously, Ozzy, you should get that windshield wiper fixed. There’s a storm plowing through Higley—south of here about 40 miles—and you’ll be flying right through it.”
Ozzy shook his head. “Ah, I’ll be fine, lad. But when I get back to the airport, I’m going to have a little chat with the fucking mechanic. I can’t wait to see him again.”
Greene and Dishaw made their way back to the Tahoe as Ozzy climbed aboard the Beechcraft. Greene tossed his toothpick to the ground.“Take two grand out for yourself, Dishaw. Keep your mouth shut and don’t deposit the money in the bank. These opportunities don’t come along very often.”
Dishaw pulled the cash out and separated 20 one-hundred dollar bills. Then he stuffed the remainder back in the envelope and shoved his cut into his front pocket. They climbed back into their white and blue vehicle and started to drive to the crime scene on the reservation. They were quiet as they each thought about what they’d do with their little bonus. Taking a bribe to let the plane pass inspection and carry that much money across the border seemed so easy to Dishaw. He could get used to these bonuses, and the exchange took place hundreds of yards from the terminal, where no one could see them. Or so he thought.
Stacie Marten set down the Leupold binoculars. She sat in the break room on the second floor of the Bettinger Airport terminal eating a light breakfast like she did every day she worked. The binoculars were just one set of three in the building and were used to watch for incoming flights, but they were also to ensure no deer or coyotes were wandering onto the tarmac when flights were departing or arriving. Today they served another purpose—watching two Customs and Border Protection agents take a bribe during a flight inspection.
Stacie set down the powerful optics and finished writing the plane’s serial number on her napkin, “C-FBZA.” She recognized Greene and wrote his name under the serial number. She always disliked Greene. The second officer was a new face to her, but she could get that information with a quick phone call to the Customs’ office.
Ensuring private flights were legal was not part of Stacie’s job duties, but she knew something was amiss about the whole ordeal. Customs inspections typically lasted 30 minutes, and this one was complete in the time it took her to make toast. The envelope of cash “new guy” was fumbling through reinforced the notion that she had just witnessed a bribe in progress.
She waited for the Beechcraft’s wheels to leave the ground, tucked the napkin in her pocket, and headed to her office. Halfway down the hall, she turned right into the ladies room and vomited—nerves or her first bout of morning sickness, she wasn’t sure, but she needed to make some phone calls and report the mysterious transaction.
She thought about Paul, standing on the ice, pulling in fish and laughing with his brothers. She tried sending him a text message—Hope you ur having fun-Luv you. XOXO.
Unable to send message, the phone blinked back at her. She knew Paul was out of cell phone range, but it was worth a try.
She dialed a number on her cell, calling Daryl downstairs. “Hey Daryl, it’s Stacie.”
Daryl worked for the airline. He was the ticket agent, luggage handler, and the flight director. He worked harder than anyone else at the airport, but for half the wages. “Hi, Stacie, what’s up?”
“Was that Ozzy Sullivan flying that plane that just left?”
“Sure was. I know, I thought he’d moved to Alaska, too.”
“Oh…I hadn’t heard that. No, I was wondering where that flight was going. Did you receive an EAPIS report on that flight?”
“Yes, it was emailed to me. If I remember correctly, their destination is Schenectady. No cargo on board. One passenger—a guy by the name of Sunkenship, or Battleship, or something like that. I can’t quite recall.”
“Can you get me that name when you get back inside?” Stacie asked. She could see Daryl outside leaning on a snow shovel, holding the wireless phone to his ear.
“Yes, of course,” Daryl replied. “I’ll have it to you in about 10 minutes. Let me finish shoveling the sidewalk.”
“Thanks,” she hung up. Something had to be on that flight. Greene would only need to be bribed if there were guns, drugs, or illegal persons on board. Maybe there were more people on board than reported. Or, maybe this Sunken/Battleship guy was crooked. Obviously, he was using an alias. The questions kept building in her mind. The more she thought about it, the more it vexed her. How much cash did that sonovabitch just put in his pocket? Guilt burned in her chest and rose up into her throat. She poured her morning orange juice into her mouth and swallowed it down hard, hoping the guilt would be flushed with it. Was she jealous of Greene getting that money? She wondered what was bothering her more—the fact that they dared to commit a felony within view of the terminal or the fact that Greene probably walked away with enough cash to solve all her and Paul’s money problems. She decided the answer was both.
Chapter 7 / Ice Breaker
Paul Marten watched the interloper veer from the snow-packed trail and step clumsily through knee-high snow. Jack stood from his kneeling position now that his tip-up was rebaited and set to spring once a fish took the bait.
“Andy Kessler,” Jack identified the shadow. He could recognize a person’s walk and silhouette better than he could identify vehicle tracks on the snow-covered roads. He’d watched Andy walk across the ice for years and knew the man well.
With an ice-fishing sled in tow, Andy Ke
ssler snaked through some trees and started down a steep bank on the edge of the frozen river. His first step down the bank was a mistake, causing his left foot to slide forward while his right foot stayed planted behind. The awkward split position produced an imbalance that sent his arms flailing. With nothing to grab onto to regain traction or balance, he fell on his ass and disappeared in a puff of white powder. The jet-sled, loaded with gear, sped down the bank behind him, ran over his head and spilled its contents.
The Marten brothers fought to keep their laughter hidden, burying their faces in their buckskin mittens to muffle the sound. The clumsy fisherman sat straight up, snow packed in every crevice of his heavy coveralls and Carhart jacket. A pinky finger dug snow out of this left ear as he cocked his head sideways. Once the ear was clear, he kneeled on the ice and searched through the snow to retrieve his spilled gear.
The three Martens started scuffing across the ice to help Andy recover his gear. Eric spun on his heels. “Flag! It’s one of mine. You guys go help Andy.” Eric picked up the pace and jogged out to attend to his fish trap. Paul and Jack marched in the opposite direction to offer salutations and assistance to Andy.
By the time they reached his location, the snow that had gotten into Andy’s jacket was melting. The cold water ran down his neck and back, stinging his skin and shocking his body. Andy was stripping off his heavy coat and chasing the wet snow running down his back and into his boots when he realized Paul and Jack were standing there watching him. The look of frustration disappeared as cheek muscles pulled the corners of his mouth back. Andy recognized the brothers immediately.
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