Jackson Ford - Random Sh*t Flying Through the Air

Schmidt is landing his private jet at Van Nuys airport tomorrow morning, and he’ll be heading into the city to meet with a buyer. Tanner’s sources say the list is going to be on-board. It’s an actual piece of paper in a safe, or possibly a USB stick – no way Schmidt is going to put something that sensitive on a computer with an internet connection.

If all goes to plan, he won’t have anything to sell. Reggie will get us onto the airport property, and it’s up to me to get on board the plane, sneaking inside while it’s parked in the hangar. I’ll use my mad PK skillz to crack the safe, snatch the goods and then get the hell out of there.

“Wait, wait, wait.” Africa points at Paul’s whiteboard. “He just gonna have his list on the plane? Maybe he keep it in his pocket?”

“Nah,” Annie says. “Dude wouldn’t just walk around with it.”

“Not even with, like, a briefcase cuffed to his wrist?” I say.

“You do know people don’t do that in real life, right?” Annie replies.

“It actually makes sense for him to keep the list on his jet.” Paul taps a finger on his chin. “An airport is a high-security area anyway, and he’ll have his own hangar, with his own guards. Better than a jacket pocket, or a hotel safe. Those things are real easy to bust open.”

Paul does this thing when he’s focusing hard where he very gently bites the tip of his tongue. It’s ridiculously annoying at the best of times; this morning, it makes me want to destroy the office all over again. “Schmidt’s used the same firm of limo drivers for the past five years,” he says. “Island Limos. They’ll be picking him up at 10:15 precisely, and if I look at the driver records… here. They don’t tend to be more than three minutes late, when they aren’t on time. I have to crunch some numbers to know for sure, but—”

“Fascinating.” I push myself off the couch, straightening my stiff shirt. “You do that.”

“Where are you going?” Annie says.

“Gotta talk to Reggie about something.” I look for the wall mirror to give myself a once-over, before remembering that it was smashed to pieces.

“Is it about the budget?” Africa levers himself off the couch, limbs unfolding. “I need a raise, yaaw . Jeannette wants to buy a new oven, even though she can’t cook anything.” He snorts.

“What are you talking about?” Paul says. “You literally just joined the team. You can’t get a pay rise until you’ve been working for six months. It’s in the contract – clause six, if I remember.”

“But, boss—”

While they’re bickering, I push through the door into Reggie’s office.

The space is the nicest in the house, easily. The drapes are as thick as comforters, the walls painted a tasteful turquoise. They’re decorated with abstract art, chosen by Reggie – or rather, they would be, if the canvasses weren’t all stacked in a messy pile in the corner, surrounded by ripples of shattered glass.

Reggie’s computer setup is still bolted to the wall: six massive monitors, and three towers. She calls the collection her Rig, and when she’s working, it looks like an extension of her chair, Reggie seated in the middle of it all like the pilot of a giant, kaiju-crushing mech.

Her hands dance across two specially designed trackballs, all while she mutters commands into the microphone mounted on the headrest of her chair. Alongside the big, curved monitors, there are at least three laptops open on the table in front of her. They’re all displaying a zillion black-and-white text boxes on the screens, moving way too fast to follow

She doesn’t look up when I enter, but I know her eyes will be dancing like she’s in REM sleep, navigating through whatever system she’s locked into. The helicopter crash in Afghanistan might have taken her body – she’s an incomplete quadriplegic – but it didn’t take her mind. Or her ability to get shit done. Or her love of acting – she’s part of a theatre company out in Anaheim. I’ve never actually been to one of her shows, because I am a horrible person. God, why didn’t I get off my ass and go? It would have been the perfect way to start a conversation today, and then I could smoothly change the subject to other artistic pursuits, like cooking, and—

Nic’s voice in my head: It’s amazing to me that you haven’t figured out what’s more important .

I shake it off, clearing my throat and shutting the door quietly behind me. No response. One of the laptop screens is running multiple news reports on the quake, grainy footage of the LA skyline belching smoke.

“Reggie,” I say, when she still doesn’t look round. “You got a sec?”

She ignores me.

“Uh, hi? Reggie?”

I creep closer, coming round into her field of view. Her eyes are narrowed, locked on one of the screens, which looks to be displaying more data from the quake. For a long moment, she doesn’t move: just stares at the screen, mouth slightly open. She’s only in her forties, but there are already deep wrinkles around her eyes, tugging at the corner of her mouth.

I lift my hand, waving it near her face. “Anyone in there?”

“If you don’t move your hand,” she says slowly, not looking away from the screen, “I’m going to bite your little finger off.”

“Sorry.” I yank it back.

I stand there for a second, expecting her to continue. She doesn’t.

“So it looks like we’re set for the job tomorrow,” I say. “If Schmidt lands on schedule, we should be able to get inside the plane.”

“Mm.”

“It looks like the best way to go in is through the roof? Apparently the hangers at Van Nuys have skylights, so…”

“Yes, I know, Teagan.” Her Louisiana accent is thicker than normal. “I was the one who dug up the schematics.”

“Oh. OK. Right.”

She starts moving the trackball again. Her fingers don’t work as they should, but she’s got enough movement in her arm to manipulate the ball with her hand. A map of the quake appears on screen, with a red bull’s-eye centred on the Arizona border.

I clear my throat. “I was wondering—”

“Damndest thing,” she murmurs.

“What?”

It’s a few moments before she replies. “Someone called in a missing state trooper. They found his car in the middle of nowhere, outside Mesa Verde. Door open, key in the ignition, phone still in the charger. No sign of him.”

“The hell is Mesa Verde?”

“Our side of the Arizona border.” From out of nowhere, she pulls up a photo: an older guy in a tan police uniform, wearing one of those ridiculous cowboy hats rural cops like. He has the slightest smile on his face, and wrinkles around his eyes that remind me of Reggie herself. He looks like somebody’s grandpa.

“Rudy Daniels. I did some digging. Career officer, wife and kid, flying colours on his last psych eval. No reason for him to go missing.”

“OK but, no offence, why do we care? Not exactly our jurisdiction is it?”

“Maybe not. Seems kind of strange though, don’t you think? It’s not like Mesa Verde’s a crime hotspot.”

“OK… but I just don’t see—”

“That’s because you aren’t looking hard enough.”

Her tone is sharp, irritated. It’s so unlike her that I actually take a step back.

Her face softens. “Sorry, honey. Didn’t mean to snap at you.”

“Are… you OK?”

She sags back in her chair. “Just worried about Washington.”

Reggie’s heading to DC tomorrow – she’s due to leave right after we wrap things up with Schmidt. I still can’t believe I left it this late to talk to her.

“Moira’s been in one hell of a mood lately,” she says. “Can’t say I’m all that excited to meet up with her this time round.”