John Locke - Vegas Moon

God, I’d love to snuff this bastard for you guys!

I can’t go into details, but M is bad news. And he’s got some very bad plans for you and your loved ones.

You’ve done nothing to him.

Nothing.

But he wants to hurt you anyway. Wants to maim and kill your children.

We call him M, but as far as I’m concerned, it stands for motherfucker. And while I can’t make you any promises, I’m going to do my best to send this bastard straight to hell tonight, and get him off your list of things to worry about.

38.

Nine-thirty.

My getaway car should be pulling up any second. But I don’t see it.

…Nine-forty, still no car.

I can’t just stand around here forever. Soon M’s limo driver will walk into baggage claim with his sign. He’ll be located one floor up, near the carousel I’m watching from below.

It’s busy out here. People are working hard all around me. Baggage cars come and go, hooked together, three, four, five at a time, like little trains. They deliver the bags that come from all over the world to people standing impatiently right above us. It’s astounding, really, when you think about it. People bitch and moan about losing this bag or that, but when you’re out here among these hard-working men and women, you realize the enormity of what they’re trying to accomplish. Sure they make the occasional mistake. Who doesn’t? But these people are amazing! If they weren’t on a strict time-line, they’d have a 100% delivery rate. As it is, they’re within shouting distance of it. What strikes me is the bags never stop moving! It’s a nice, clear night, but I know these guys work just as hard when it’s cold, raining, or snowing.

Wait. Strike that. It doesn’t snow in San Francisco. But it does get cold. Someone once said, “The coldest winter I ever spent was one summer in San Francisco!” It is, in fact, the coldest major city in America during the summer months. As for baggage people in other parts of the country who work through snow and ice and rotten weather?

I love ’em.

But I digress.

I know I’m rambling, and it’s not because I’m nervous. It’s just that I’m standing here watching hundreds of bags being delivered every minute, while my people—who are supposed to be the best in the world—can’t bring me a simple bomb, gun, silencer, and some bullets.

I just want my stuff.

So I can do my job.

Is that too much to ask?

Nine-fifty. No car, no duffel.

I don’t have to use a silencer. I can shoot the bad guys perfectly well with the gun in my shoulder harness.

But it’ll make a lot of noise, and everyone will see me. So yeah, a silencer would be great. And a small, loud bomb to detonate, away from the action, so everyone will look that way when it’s time for me to haul ass. Speaking of things that would be great, let’s don’t underestimate the value of a getaway car. I’d love to kill the bad guys and get away without being shot or killed.

All these things would be great to have.

But they’re not necessary.

And they’re not necessary because killing M is worth dying for. It is, in fact, a good exchange, because I can only kill a few dozen terrorists in my life, while he can kill thousands of Americans.

I wonder briefly if Lou even bothered to get me a car. I don’t want to whine, or dwell too much on what it’s like working every day with people I don’t trust. I mean, you might have it ten times worse than me at your job. When I tell you my boss gave me a new face against my wishes, you might say, “You think that’s bad?”—and you might have a worse story. Lou, the guy I rely on to help me take down the bad guys—tried to kill me and steal all my money a few months ago. And might be trying to kill me tonight, by denying me a getaway car. But you might have a coworker that makes Lou look like a choirboy.

I don’t like to make assumptions about Darwin and Lou. But Darwin’s plan would almost certainly have gotten me killed tonight. Is that what he intended?

No way to know. Darwin’s a company guy, ruthless as a slumlord who knows about the gold filling in your tooth. But far as I know, he’s never worked in the field. Maybe he’s just a bad planner.

I glance at my watch for the fifth time in ten minutes.

It’s time.

I have to go upstairs, take a position from which to survey the scene.

I’ve got a plan.

I’ll make it work.

I start walking toward the security door. While I walk, I scan the endless concrete around me…

…And see a black sedan entering the far gate.

39.

The sedan pulls up and I meet the driver and have him back into the space I’ve reserved. The folks in baggage are comfortable with me, and when I tell them I’m escorting a dignitary out the back they’re more excited than suspicious. The local guy who brought me the bomb turns out to be a kid of twenty-two, who looks like he’s about to faint.

“Relax, son,” I say. “I’ll get you out of here.”

“Yes sir.”

I pause for a moment. I have to wonder if maybe the reason he’s so nervous is because he’s got the real detonator in his pocket, and plans to blow me up when he walks out the front door. I shake my head, trying to rid myself of the paranoia.

Still…

I lean him and the driver up against the car and pat them down like my life depends on it. Then I apologize, and let the driver get back in his car. The kid and I climb in the back seat. I tell him to show me his bomb, and explain how it works. It’s dark, so I flip on my pen light and train it on the floor. There’s just enough glow to see what he’s holding. As I instructed, he’s placed the bomb in a soft drink cup that has a plastic lid on it, and a straw sticking out. The straw holds the antenna for the receiver. He hands me the detonator, which is the size of a garage door opener, and has two buttons.

“What’s the second button for?”

“Press either one. They both work.”

“Why have two?”

He shrugs. “It’s my garage door opener. It came that way.”

Now I’m starting to get a little nervous.

“What’s the range for detonating it?”

“Sixty yards.”

“The trash can is metal.”

“So?”

“Want to change your range estimate?”

“Nope.”

“That’s a pretty bold statement,” I say, “for someone who hasn’t seen the trash can yet. What are you basing the distance on?”

“Educated guess.”

“A guess,” I repeat.

“Yes sir.”

“And have you tested the range before?”

“Of course.”

“In a metal trash can?”

“No.”

“So you don’t even know if it will detonate.”

“Oh, it’ll detonate, all right!” he says, enthusiastically.

I may have doubted the kid at first. But now I believe him. I like a guy who loves his work.

“And the bomb is safe?” I say.

“Define safe.”

“Big bang, no injuries.”

“Where’s the opening on the can?”

“There’s a round hole on the top, maybe a foot in diameter.”

“When you detonate it, make sure no one’s leaning over the top.”

“Because?”

“The explosion’s going to shoot up about ten feet.”

“But nothing through the sides?”

“No. It’s a noise bomb. And smoke. I assumed you wanted smoke.”

“Smoke is good.”

“If there’s paper in the trash can, it’ll ignite.”

“They can deal with that later.”

I put the garage door detonator in my pocket and say, “Show me the gun and silencer.”

He opens the duffel enough so I can look inside. I reach in and heft it.

Feels right.

I use my pocket knife to cut a hole in the duffel bag large enough to accommodate the barrel of the silencer. Then push the barrel through the hole about an inch, and cover that part of the duffel with my jacket. I keep the top of the duffel unzipped, so I can reach in and shoot when the time comes, without having to brandish the gun.