“’Preciate the hand, Mr. Murray.” Rob Flint tucked a water bottle back into its holder, then backed away from the ash-ferret enclosure before he wriggled the fingers of his cast arm. “Kind of short on those at the moment – damn it.” He hurried over to a ringing phone, fumbled the receiver off the cradle; cursed under his breath and lifted it to his ear. “Really bad time, whoever you are – hang on a minute, I got a hand full….” Almost dropping the handpiece again, he hit speaker.
“-tor Flint.” The man’s voice was concerned. Conciliatory. Teal’c disliked it immensely. “We haven’t heard from you in a while-”
“How about the far side of never?” the vet shot back. “Mr. Roth, right? Yeah, I remember you, and your greasy hair dye, and your Saville Row suits. You know they make you look like a stuffed turkey, right? With a little silk tie of giblets hanging down.”
Dead silence. Teal’c raised a startled brow. If this was indeed the Martin Roth he knew of, who carried out tasks for the official NID… interesting.
“…That’s no tone for a man in your position to take.”
“My position? Oh, that’s rich, coming from one of the guys who blackmailed me out here in the middle of freezing nowhere in the first place,” Rob Flint bit out.
“I would hardly say-”
“Oh, excuse me, emphasized the damages that would result from refusing a generous offer,” the vet cut him off. “News for you, asshole. I know you and your D.C. buddies have no clue what it’s like in flyover country, but Colorado judges kind of think a dad ought to have a chance to raise his own daughter. So I still have joint custody – no thanks to you, you prick – and the local IRS office got real interested in the kinds of things you and your bosses have been leaving off your investment returns. You heard from them yet?”
Silence. Teal’c was certain he heard teeth grinding.
“Oh, you did, didn’t you. Have fun with the audit, jackass.”