[Thursday September 10th, 2076; Hat Island, Salish waters, of coast of Snohomish, Seattle Metroplex]
"Time enough to run down his particulars on the flight up," Mordecai had answered. Mordecai's truck had been parked in the red zone at the arrivals pick-up, and he'd been eager to get clear. But once they were in the cab, rather than head out of the airport he drove through some service gates and around to a heliport. "I told this guy what you told me, that you had a cash budget of two-hundred-and-fifty-kay. Had to swear you were for real. That sort of purchase comes with a whole different sales pitch than buying a new Toyota Gopher, right?" They pulled out onto the tarmac where a Hughes Palomino - basically a limousine with a rotor on top - was just revving up. As Al grabbed his gun case and his garbage bag of personal stuff, Mordecai looked at him doubtfully. "You do have that kind of cred to spend, right?"
"Heh, worried about an awkward social situation, compadre?"
"Fuck that. Worried about my rep, turns out I pulled this guy's chain."
"Not ta fret. This guy's got what he said he's got, then ol' Al's got the green, baby."
An attendant in a long-sleeved white blouse, black necktie, and matching black micro-miniskirt helped strap them into seats that were unmistakeably real leather. The interior of the cabin was eerily quiet as they took off, enough that Al was hankering to look at the schematics for the sound baffles. After the woman had offered champagne but come back from the bar with beers, Mordecai laid it out.
"Winslow Flannery. This guy's basically legit, sort of a sales agent, hooks wealthy clients up with rare or specialty aircraft. Has himself a niche clientele, since he's licensed to deal in both the UCAS and the Salish lands, and has access to wholesale from Boeing, Northrup, and so forth. Operates off Hat Island, which is in a bit of a gray spot jurisdiction-wise, which allows him to deal with folks like yourself as well. He's real careful about it though. I had to tell him nothing you buy'll be used for anything illegal anywhere in the Pacific Northwest. That's what you said, right?"
"That's what I said," confirmed Al.
"Well, I know you're too stupid to be scared of anyone - hell, the damned Eye-ties still keep eyes on my place, you ever come back. But screw this guy and it's my ass, right?"
"Wouldn't do that, amigo. Reckon ya know that."
"Well, I don't doubt your intentions, just your wisdom. No offense."
"None taken."
The flight was thirty minutes, running the length of the metroplex north from Sea-Tac. They landed on a cement pad outside a sprawling glass residence with views of forested shore of Whidbey Island and the grassy southern tip of Camano Island to the north, both in Salish hands, and the Snohomish coastline of the Metroplex, and beyond that the Cascades. It reminded Al of just how beseiged Seattle really was.
From the air, they saw that beyond the house's extensive gardens was a marina housing half a dozen boats, and a number of large hangars further along on the water. They were too big to feasibly have been built all of wood, but their exteriors were done in the style of native longhouses, and as such they did not detract from the stunning views the house had in every direction.
They went down the steps from the helicopter and man was standing alone just beyond the rotor wash, full head of hair ruffling slightly. They approached to find a man obviously of Native American descent, clad in a grey leisure suit and silk tie. By the time they reached him, the Palomino had flown off.
He extended a hand. "I'm Winslow Flannery. But please call me Dukwibal. It's a pretentious name, that of a creation deity dear to the Skykomish people. But it is the name my parents gave me, and here on my island I prefer it to the Westernized name I use for dealing with the corps. And you must be Mr. Guthrie."
A scarred hand entered his and shook it firmly. "Jist Al, baby. Jist Al. Name my folks gave me, right?"
The man smiled.