He squinted against the reflection of the morning sun on the perfect white skin of the Gulfstream as it taxied toward the terminal building. The twin tail-mounted jet engines emitted a high-pitched whine that hurt his ears.
The pilot of the jet did a graceful turn so the passenger door lined up with the entrance of the terminal before he cut the power to the engines. The turbines wound down into silence and the only sound was the light wind. Joe could see the profiles of several people inside moving about.
A moment later, the door opened and a stairway unfolded to the surface of the tarmac.
And there, not quite filling the opening, was a pale, gangly man with a boyish face and wispy ginger hair. He waved as if there were a crowd to greet him and not just Joe.
This was Joe’s first glimpse of thirty-two-year-old Steven “Steve-2” Price, the Silicon Valley billionaire and CEO of Aloft, Inc. and the principal behind ConFab, the social media site.
Joe’s job was to take him elk hunting.
* * *
—
Price was dressed in state-of-the-art high-tech outdoor hunting clothing, but despite that, he hugged himself against the cold as he descended the stairs. When he reached the pavement, he stopped and looked up and around him, theatrically taking in the wide-open sky and the mountain ranges on three sides.
Price opened his arms as if to embrace it all and he cried, “Nature!”
Joe stifled a smile.
Behind Price, another person emerged: a fidgety overweight man, bald on top with tufts of black hair above his ears. He came down the stairs so quickly Joe thought he might tumble to the concrete. The man quickly shouldered past Price and strode toward Joe until Price called to him.
“Tim!”
The man called Tim stopped dead in his tracks and turned around. Joe had spent the past week exchanging scores of emails with Price’s point man, whose name was Timothy Joannides. Joe assumed this was him.
“Did you get that?” Price asked Joannides.
“Did I get what?”
Price fixed a look of disdain on Tim. “My first reaction?”
“No,” Joannides said. “I was behind you and—”
“Tim, your job is to document this experience. We talked about that, didn’t we? Do I have to explain it again?”
“No.”
Tim seemed to Joe to want to say more, but he didn’t.
“Are you ready now?” Price asked.
“Yes, sir.”
Price waited impatiently until Tim found his phone and raised it to eye level.
Price held up his camo glove for a moment, then climbed the stairs of the plane and reenacted his actions from a minute before.
“Nature!” he called out again with his arms spread. Then he froze in mid-pose.
“Got it?” Price asked Tim.
“Got it.”
“Make sure you get a panorama of the mountains,” Price directed. “Then cut that in before we post it.”
“I’m on it,” Tim said as he stepped out of Price’s way and raised up his phone to video the surroundings. He spun around slowly as he did so.
Joe was so preoccupied with the interplay between Price and Joannides that he hadn’t seen a third man exit the plane until the newcomer was headed straight toward him. The man was heavy, squared-off, and built low to the ground. His stride was smooth and purposeful, almost a jog, and his shoulders and head were bent forward. His arms were held out away from his body in a way that gave Joe the brief impression that he was about to be tackled.
The man didn’t stop until he was inches away from Joe.
“I need to pat you down for weapons.” He had a deep bass voice and spoke with a blunt Eastern European accent.
“I left ’em in my truck,” Joe said, feeling both angry and violated. The man was just too close. “Isn’t that what I was supposed to do?”
“Sorry, it’s my job,” the man said without a real apology, and Joe found himself being expertly patted down, all the way to the top of his lace-up hunting boots. When the man was done, he stepped back.
“You’re clear,” the man said.
“I already told you that.”
Joe and the bodyguard stared at each other for several beats. The man didn’t blink. He had a wide Slavic face, close-cropped black hair, a downturned mouth, and a square jaw not quite as wide as his thick neck. Joe could only guess the man was armed because of the bulges and protrusions beneath his matte black–colored tactical coat.
“Please forgive Zsolt,” Price said with an embarrassed grin as he joined the two. He pronounced the name Zolt. “He kind of overdoes it sometimes, but he’s a good man to have around.”
“I’m law enforcement,” Joe said through gritted teeth.
Price arched his eyebrows. “I thought you were a game warden.”
“Game wardens are law enforcement,” Joe said to Price.
“If you say so,” Price said, obviously unconvinced.
Joe didn’t move. Inside, he seethed even while he offered his hand to Price.
“And you must be Joe,” Price said with a grin. “‘Good old Joe,’ I’ve been saying.”
Before Joe could confirm it, Price chinned toward the jet. “Is the wrangler waiting for us somewhere?”
“His name is Brock,” Joe said. “Yup, he’s waiting inside for us.”
“You can call me Steve-2,” Price said. He pronounced SteveTwo as a two-syllable word. Instead of grasping Joe’s hand in return, he offered an elbow bump. It was an obvious holdover from the pandemic. Either that, or Price was a germophobe, Joe thought.
“That’s Tim out there with the camera,” Price said. “He’s my personal assistant. You’ve met Zsolt Rumy. As you probably guessed, he oversees security.”
Rumy nodded at the mention of his name. Joe nodded back.
Price sidled up close, man-to-man. “I know you’re probably asking yourself why a dude like me needs security.”
“Not really.”
“I sometimes wonder myself,” Price said.
One of the crew of the jet had opened the cargo hold door and Joe could see what looked like dozens of large duffel bags, gear boxes, and backpacks inside.
Joe narrowed his eyes. “I’m sure Tim told you we’re taking horses.”
“He did. I’m really looking forward to it.”
“We may need to winnow down some of your stuff if it’s too much.”