Using a long tree branch as a walking stick, Anderson moved with faster, longer strides. Additionally, T.B. carried the heavy Columbia backpack for him. Every three hours, the two men took a break to drink water or eat canned meat, recovering their energy and strength.
After each break, they took turns carrying the heavy Columbia backpack and pressed on. As young men accustomed to physical activity, their recovery time was quick. After just a few minutes of rest, they exchanged a nod before bowing their heads and continuing their trek along the single gravel road in the Tagiunituk Lakes region.
There was no need for discussion; both of them knew the likelihood of the Toyota Hilux running out of fuel near the first stop was high. And there was no need for encouragement; they both understood that the mission was to save lives. More than that, they were on their way to rescue a beautiful girl. That thought alone was enough to fuel them—a powerful, natural motivation unlike any other.
In Alaska, summer days are long, while winter days are short. The farther north one goes, the longer the summer daylight lasts. In the Far North, the sun doesn't set for months. Some believe Alaska gets less sunlight than other locations, but the truth is the opposite. On average, Alaska receives 10-17 minutes more daylight per day than other states in the U.S.
Including twilight—the period before sunrise and after sunset when there is still light—Alaska receives an average of 40 minutes more daylight than the rest of the country. This is due to the sun rising and setting later because of time zone boundaries. In the Tagiunituk Lakes region, the sky would be completely dark for only about three hours during summer.
As the two men reached their first stop, dusk had begun to settle. Anderson suddenly halted and lowered the Columbia backpack from his shoulder.
"We stop and rest here. T.B., I'm exhausted. We can't do anything in the dark."
T.B. wanted to continue. Layla Smith was still in danger. But his companion insisted on stopping and resting.
Anderson wandered around, gathering dry branches. He placed them inside a stone circle—the remnants of an old campfire. Preparing to start a fire, he knew that within minutes of sunset, fog would roll in, and the night would turn bitterly cold. Even as a young man, he couldn't withstand nature's harsh fluctuations without warmth.
T.B. stopped him.
"Anderson, what are you doing? Don't light anything. Aren't you afraid the assassin will see the fire?"
"I want him to see us, T.B."
"Why?"
"I want to put pressure on him—to make him feel like someone is hunting him."
"What if he kills Miss Layla Smith?" T.B. asked hastily.
"To answer that, I have to put myself in his shoes. He took a hostage because he needed a bargaining chip for his escape. If he had intended to kill Miss Layla Smith, he would have done it back at the camp. Why didn't he?"
"Because he wanted to use her to control us and steal the Toyota Hilux," T.B. replied.
"Exactly. He rigged the camp with explosives and fuel to destroy evidence and prevent us from contacting William Smith or calling the police. That way, we couldn't bring reinforcements or better equipment to hunt him down. He was buying time. He clearly understood the capabilities of Kivalina Resources Limited Liability Company, so he kept Miss Layla Smith as a hostage until he could safely escape. He can kill her at any time, but he hasn't—because that's not his goal. He infiltrated the camp, killed Hanta, then impersonated him to gather information about the potential gold mine we're searching for."
Anderson paused before concluding, "Killing Miss Layla Smith doesn't benefit him. If I were him, I wouldn't want to provoke William Smith's wrath. I wouldn't want to be hunted by his private detectives and contract killers for the rest of my life."
Anderson considered adding, "Especially since you'd be one of them, T.B.," but held his tongue. Instead, he took a roll of toilet paper from his backpack, tore it into small pieces, balled them up, and placed them among the dry branches. Striking his Zippo lighter, he ignited the pile. The fire roared to life, casting a warm glow that pushed back the creeping fog.
T.B. quickly stepped out of the fire's light. "The effective range of the M1 Garand rifle in the assassin's hands is over 500 yards. He has a scope. He's a skilled marksman. Aren't you afraid of getting shot?"
"Of course I'm afraid," Anderson admitted. "I'm very afraid of getting shot in the head. But as I said, he doesn't want to kill me. Even with his M1 Garand and scope, he wouldn't dare take that risk. In the dark, with fog and flickering firelight, his vision through the scope wouldn't be clear enough. He'd be too afraid of missing or making a mistake."
"Anderson, the assassin shot at us when we were in the car." T.B. was growing frustrated. Anderson was insane.
"No, T.B. I'm certain the assassin wasn't shooting at 'us.' He was only shooting at you. He knew you were the real threat, not me. Even in the dark, he recognized that you were always the one driving the Toyota Hilux to transport me and the others to the survey boreholes and back to the camp."
Anderson set his dirty clothes beside the fire. He hung a doormat from the branch of a Western Hemlock—more common in Alaska than even the Sitka Spruce—to shield himself from the wind. Placing another doormat on the ground, he fashioned a makeshift bed. Then, he pulled two cans of meat from the Columbia backpack, tossing one to T.B. He opened his can and placed it on a rock by the fire to heat.
Leaning back against his backpack with his hands clasped behind his neck, Anderson looked like a traveler resting after a long but thrilling journey.
T.B. remained in the shadows, watching Anderson with a mix of surprise and intrigue. Anderson's reasoning felt like a high-stakes gamble in Las Vegas. Yet, despite his reckless strategy, the gambler—Anderson—seemed to have an uncanny knack for winning.
"T.B.," Anderson suddenly spoke, "I built this fire for another reason."
"What reason?"
"Miss Layla Smith can see this fire from the mountain. It will give her hope. She'll know someone is coming to rescue her. She might deliberately slow down the assassin or find a way to escape. When the Toyota Hilux runs out of fuel, the assassin and Miss Layla Smith will have to travel on foot, just as we are. He won't be able to move quickly with a tied-up hostage. Layla Smith will become a burden. The fake Hanta made two mistakes at the camp, T.B."
"What was the other mistake, Anderson?"
"He assumed Layla Smith was the weakest, most vulnerable person there so that he kidnapped her. But she's much stronger than a man—she even tried to kill me."
"Well, let's not bring up that unfortunate misunderstanding, Anderson."
"No, T.B. I mean, the fake Hanta will soon realize she's a liability."
"He'll let her go?" T.B. chuckled and tried not to laught.
"No," Anderson said in a low voice. "If I were him, and I knew I was being pursued, I wouldn't release her. I'd shoot her."
"Are you insane?" T.B. snapped. "You just said killing her wouldn't benefit him."
"He wouldn't kill her—just injure her and leave her for us. She will slow us down when we found her then she will die on the way we bring her to the hospital."
"So you stopped us here to prevent him from feeling pressured into doing something drastic, didn't you?"
"Exactly. Moreover, we've spent too much energy getting here. We don't have the resources to save an injured hostage. That's my biggest concern so that I have to do what you saw."
Silence.
T.B. lay down, slightly outside the fire's light. Resting his head on one hand, he placed his Glock 17 on his stomach with the other. Gazing up at the Alaskan night sky, he watched a meteor streak across.
Then, suddenly, church bells rang in the distance—the second time he had heard them during this mission. Their deep, measured chimes rolled through the air, solemn and unyielding, like a wedding march from a life that was never his.
T.B. exhaled shakily, his chest tightening as his thoughts drifted—unbidden, unstoppable—to her. He could almost see it, that impossible moment: standing beside her in front of a church, her fingers laced with his, the warmth of her presence chasing away the cold he had carried for so long. For a fleeting second, he let himself believe it, let himself feel what it might be like to be wanted, to be chosen, to belong.
But reality was cruel. The image wavered, then broke apart, leaving nothing but the bitter ache of what could never be. Men like him didn't get happy endings.