Under the vast, star-scattered sky of Tagiunituk Lakes, two young men sat beside the charred ruins of their camp, their faces illuminated by the flickering glow of dying embers. The scent of burnt wood and fuel still lingered in the crisp night air. Anderson and T.B. were eating canned meat—whatever they could salvage from the wreckage. Some cans had been thrown far by the force of the explosions, scattered like remnants of a life they once knew. Amidst the debris, they had also found the bodies of two other employees. Though burned beyond recognition, the deep slashes on their throats made it clear—they had been murdered before the fire consumed them.
Anderson chewed in silence for a moment before speaking. "Mr. T.B., how did you know Hanta was fake?"
T.B. glanced at him, then back at the blackened wreckage. "Mr. Anderson Jr. Seely, when I saw the headless corpse, I had to ask myself—if the pressure from a carbon dioxide cylinder was strong enough to decapitate someone, who would dare to use it for rescue and evacuation in the airplain? It didn't make any sense."
Anderson nodded, swallowing his bite. "That's right. The person had his throat cut before being thrown into the water."
T.B. wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "So, this was murder situation. And a throat can only be cut from behind if the victim was unaware of the attack, somewhere was out-of-sight of the victim. If he was killed in the mountains, why bring the body all the way here? The murderer could've just thrown him into a valley or elsewhere—less effort, less risk."
Anderson poked at his food with his fork. "Exactly. He was killed near the lake."
T.B. looked toward the ruins. "And near the lake was our camp. An out-of-sight place? The camp, too."
Anderson exhaled, the night air misting around his breath. "But even with all this, the evidence is still too vague, Mr. T.B."
T.B. sighed. "I'm not i ă criminal scene nvestigator. I just put two facts together—first, the way he was killed, and second, his Levi's pans. I feel It were very familiar. I could swear I've seen Hanta wear them before. This is a completely deserted place. Who would come here to die here? We had to travel one and a half day to get here by vehicles. Who can come and die here? You and me, we are still alive. The corpse is a man. So that it could not be Ms. Layla Smith. Extrapolating everything possible, I came to such a simple conclusion."
He scooped another bite of meat into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully, then turned to Anderson. "Why did you ask me to stop the car when I told you Hanta was fake?"
Anderson wiped his hands on his pants, staring into the flames. "A few days ago, at camp, you were there too. Hanta used a Garand M1 rifle with a scope to shoot a Black-Capped Chickadee from a Sitka Spruce tree. I thought he was a good marksman. Your Glock 17? It didn't have the firepower to match him. Even with 17 rounds in the magazine, the Glock's range is shorter than the Garand M1. Before you could get close, he could've shot you down. Plus, Layla Smith was his hostage. You wouldn't have had a clear shot."
T.B. was silent for a moment before asking, "Mr. Anderson Jr. Seely… why did you pull me behind your back and shield me from the bullets?"
Anderson's fingers tightened around the can. "You don't have to thank me. I thought the fake Hanta - the assassin - came here to look for gold only. I have the key information about the mine in my head. That means he can't afford to kill me."
T.B. frowned. "But the information you have is as vague as mine."
Anderson smirked. "He doesn't know that. And besides… are you sure my information is the same as yours?"
Silence.
T.B. scooped up the last of his meal and tossed the empty can into the wreckage, the metal clanking against the ruins. The camp—once a warm, bustling place—was now a graveyard of memories and destruction.
"Mr. Anderson Jr. Seely," T.B. said, his voice quieter now. "How did you know fake Hanta might have planted explosives at the camp?"
Anderson leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "TNT, C4, and fuel were stocked in the warehouse. If I were in his position and my cover was blown, I'd take a hostage. If I were exposed as a killer, I'd have to run. And if I ran, I'd make damn sure no one could follow. Blowing up the camp was the smartest way to cover his escape. I would've done the same."
T.B. let out a long breath, shaking his head. "You're right. But the assassin is already gone." He clenched his fists. "Sir William Smith assigned me to protect Miss Layla Smith on this trip. I see her like a younger sister. And I… I let her down."
Anderson looked at him steadily. "Mr. T.B., the assassin made a mistake."
T.B. lifted his head. "What mistake?"
Anderson pointed toward the ruined fuel storage. "He burned all the fuel."
Realization dawned in T.B.'s eyes. "Shit. That's right! The Toyota Hilux is running low. The fuel gauge was already at the redline."
Anderson nodded. "He won't get far."
T.B. sprang to his feet, his boots crunching against the dirt. He turned to Anderson and held out his hand. "Mr. Anderson Jr. Seely, I need your help to find Miss Layla Smith. I know it's not your responsibility. I can't order you to come with me. But I'm asking you."
Anderson looked at his outstretched hand for a moment before gripping it firmly. "Mr. T.B., I'm a man, just like you. How could I stand by and do nothing while someone needs help? And one more thing…"
T.B. waited, his pulse pounding.
Anderson tightened his grip. "In my life, I don't want to be your opponent. I don't want to be your colleague. I don't even want to be your partner. I want to be your friend."
T.B.'s breath hitched. Until now, no one had spoken to him like that. No one had ever treated him with such sincerity. His hand trembled slightly in Anderson's grasp. Then, with quiet resolve, he clapped his other hand over their joined grip. Anderson responded in kind.
T.B.'s grip tightened slightly in Anderson's hand. He had never allowed himself friendships. Duty was all he had ever known. But right now, he needed Anderson. He had no choice but to accept the offered hand.
Four eyes locked.
The two young guys pressed their foreheads and noses together—the traditional Inupiat Eskimo man-salute. They didn't need words anymore.