John Locke - Vegas Moon

“Ready?” I say.

“Can’t wait to get out of here,” he says.

I hand the kid his soft drink bomb and say, “Pretend to sip from the straw while we walk through baggage handling. When we get to the steps, you take the lead. Walk through the door at the top of the steps, go thirty yards to the trash can. Stand there a few seconds, pretend to take one last sip, then drop it in the trash. Don’t make eye contact with anyone. After dumping the container, you’re free to go out the front door, catch a cab, and go wherever you like. If the bomb works I’ll send you some serious cash as a token of my appreciation. Any questions?”

“No sir.”

When he climbs the steps and walks out the door, I turn and retrace my steps back out the door and walk a hundred yards to a second entrance, climb those steps and backtrack toward Carousel #6, with the duffel over my shoulder. I’ll walk there like any other passenger who’s landed and is waiting for luggage.

40.

The first thing I see upon entering the main baggage claim area is a line of limo drivers, all of whom are holding signs. I scan them as I walk by, but don’t see the name Diego Santosch. Good thing, since M’s driver shouldn’t be in this area.

Just beyond the rental car kiosks, I come to Carousel #6. I take up my position by the conveyor belt on the far side, next to the opening where the baggage exits.

A dozen men and women are standing around, waiting for bags from the previous flight. I glance at my watch. M’s flight should be arriving in twelve minutes. I’m positive he’s not on it, but don’t see anyone in the vicinity of Carousel #6 who I’d profile as a possible terrorist.

More people wander into the area. Most position themselves near the baggage entrance. A few gather at the middle. No one is standing near me. A few more people drift in. Among them is a well-dressed man in a suit, holding a sign at his side. I’m sure this is the driver. The fact he hasn’t lifted the sign tells me he knows M hasn’t arrived in the area yet. That doesn’t mean he knows M. It could simply mean he knows the flight hasn’t arrived yet.

Five minutes passes, and now there are thirty people standing around the conveyor belt. One lady walks past the others and takes up a position fifteen feet from me, and turns around to face the baggage entrance door. She’s foreign, but I can’t place her nationality based on the quick glance I got.

Suddenly I spot two men that could be my targets. One standing at the center of the conveyor, where it makes a half circle, the other looking around, as if trying to find a porter to help with his luggage.

Only he doesn’t seem to notice the porter standing near the rental car kiosk a mere thirty feet away.

If something’s going to happen, I hope it’s now, because the area’s not too crowded yet, and I have clear sight lines to the driver.

I’m looking at the driver, and the guy who’s looking around. The driver puts his right hand in his pocket, and holds the sign up with his left hand. I focus on the hand in his pocket. He’s holding something that could be a small gun. The guy who’s being far too obvious about looking around suddenly notices the sign and holds up his hand. He walks over to the driver, who lowers the sign but keeps his hand in his pocket.

This isn’t going down the way I expected. The two of them are standing there, making small talk. More people are heading toward Carousel #6. Dozens of them. If I wait much longer, I won’t have a clear shot.

I don’t know what M looks like, but I’m positive the guy standing by the driver isn’t him. I’m also positive the driver is holding a gun in his right pocket. As the people are about to overtake our carousel, I glance at the trash can to make sure there’s no one within fifteen feet of it. There’s not.

But where’s M?

Where the fuck is M?

I have to do something.

I put my hand in the duffel, turn slightly, and shoot the driver. The face of the guy standing next to him registers shock as he sees blood squirting from the driver’s chest. He turns and looks at me. I shoot him, and pause a split second, then fire two shots at the foreign lady whose back is to me. Both shots slam into the base of her skull. The impact spins her around, and she lands on her back. As it registers through the crowd that three people are on the floor, bleeding, I run toward the lady, as if attempting to offer help. At the same time I reach into my pocket for the detonator. As I get to her, I press the button, and the trash can explodes. People everywhere are screaming and ducking for cover. No one is looking in my direction. Standing over the lady, I shoot her point blank between the eyes, turn, and run through baggage exit, down the conveyor belt, out the door, and into the car.

41.

The driver Lou hired is very good.

Seconds later, he’s got us through the gate, racing toward my private jet. Ten minutes after that, I’m on board. I want to call Callie, have her turn on the TV and let me know what’s happening. But I can’t use my cell phone to do it, since I don’t trust Lou or Darwin not to hone in on my signal with a surface to air missile. For this reason I only use my cell on planes when we’re above 20,000 feet. As the engines start firing, I try calling Callie using the onboard flight phone, but amazingly, her phone is still dark.

I think about calling Gwen, but decide against it. I don’t know what the TV announcers are saying, or if I’ve been videoed on someone’s cell phone. I wouldn’t want her to get the wrong opinion about me. I mean, the right opinion. I also don’t want to tip Lucky off to our relationship until I’m there to protect her. I don’t think he’d be stupid enough to hit her, but why give him the chance to consider it?

I call Lou.

“You made the news,” he says.

“Me?”

“They’re looking for Connor Payne. He’s a person of interest in the airport attack.”

“What’re they saying?”

“That he’s a foreign agent who breached security. Had phony papers that gave him top-level security clearance.”

“What’s the government say?”

“Never heard of him.”

“Typical.”

“What happened?” Lou says.

“What are they reporting?”

“Three people dead, twenty-three wounded.”

“Wounded?”

“Stampede. Apparently a bomb went off. People freaked.”

“Anyone seriously injured?”

“Not that I’ve heard.”

“Thank God for that. Hang on a sec.”

The co-pilot turns to me and motions me to end the call.

“We’re taking off,” I say. “Call you later.”

When we pass 20,000 feet, I put the battery back in my cell phone and see that Callie has called me twice, and Darwin has called five times. My phone buzzes. I check the caller ID. Make that six times.

“Where are you?” he snaps.

“Airborn.”

“You never made contact with the limo driver. Why?”

“He knew them.”

He pauses. “How do you know?”

“Several reasons. In addition to those, he had a gun in his pocket. I don’t suppose you know anything about that, do you?”

“Of course I do.”

“Really?”

“He was one of ours.”

“Ours?”

Uh oh.

I ask, “Have you heard from him?”

“No, asshole. You killed him, remember?”

“Who told you?”

“Marshalls service. What do you mean he knew them?”

“When he recognized one of them, he put his right hand in his pocket, where his gun was. Then he raised the sign with his left hand.”

“That doesn’t prove anything.”

“You weren’t there. Trust me, he knew them.”

He pauses.

“I thought he might. That’s why we put him there.”