John Locke - Vegas Moon

Twenty minutes later, Lou tells me the car, driver, and gate person will all be in place. The helicopter is a problem, since the area outside baggage service is a no-fly zone, as is the entire airport.

“It’s an airport,” I say. “How can it be a no-fly zone?”

“Only scheduled flights,” he says. “You can’t not know this.”

“Well, schedule a flight.”

“You can’t schedule a helicopter flight to land in an airport baggage claim area. Why do you want one?”

“I want to create a diversion.”

“Well, it won’t be with a helicopter. But think it through. Do you really need a diversion? You’ve got the getaway car, the gate guy, and your private jet is less than a mile away.”

“I need a diversion.”

Lou sighs. “I’m open to suggestions.”

“What about a bomb?”

“Excuse me?”

“A bomb is perfect,” I say. “Much better than a chopper.”

“A bomb.”

“It’s perfect, don’t you see? Bombs freak people out. Especially in airports.”

“You want me to find someone who’s willing to bring a bomb into an airport. And then detonate it?”

“Yes, of course. And can you have him here within the hour?”

“You’re joking.”

“How long have we known each other?”

“What kind of bomb?”

“A loud one.”

“A loud one,” he says.

“Right. No damage, just noise.”

“I’ll let you know.”

“Let me know before nine. That’s when my phone goes dark.”

35.

A couple of baggage guys ask about my security clearance. Not questioning it, just impressed. One woman is extremely suspicious. After giving me more attitude than Hop Sing gave the Cartwrights on Bonanza, she makes me stand by her desk while calling me in to the folks upstairs. When she hangs up her attitude is different. Now she wants to feel my bicep.

I head back to retrieve my silencer, and see that the boy who’d been jumping up and down on the chair has found it, and is blowing into it like a flute. Now he’s chasing his sister around the area, trying to hit her over the head with it.

I need that silencer. It’s essential to my plan. I don’t understand why this family is sitting there. It’s upstairs, by the check in counter, where people sit while waiting for a wheel chair ride to the gate. They’re taking up space that rightfully belongs to people who need help. Of the three, only the little girl seems normal. She’s about three, and has the sense to stay away from her brother. The mom is large, and wearing some sort of shapeless patterned material. I know it can’t be easy being a mom to a six-year-old criminal, but based on her demeanor, where she’s sitting, her unkempt hair, lack of makeup—she’s either given up, or never bothered to start.

I rush over to where the kid is starting to use my five thousand dollar state-of-the-art silencer as a hammer. I come up on him from behind. He winds up, intending to give it a huge, crushing blow against the chair arm, but I snatch it out of his hand and start moving away rapidly.

This event stirs the slumbering seed of motherhood that’s been dormant in this woman since I began watching her. From some unknown pocket of flesh, or possibly her purse, she produces a whistle and blows it fit to bust. The boy is screaming and running after me in a fit of rage. The little girl laughs and claps her hands, thrilled to see her brother bested.

Security converges on me from all sides. I stop where I am, hand over my silencer, and tell them I need to take it with me to have it analyzed. They pass it around and it winds up in the hands of the US Marshall, who shows up with the head of airport security.

The whistling mom, her juvenile delinquent son, and normal daughter are standing with us. The mom is still blowing her whistle. The boy is yelling and kicking the shit out of my leg. I growl at him and he starts crying and hides behind his mother, which causes her to finally remove the whistle from her mouth.

“Did you see that?” she screams. “The bastard stole my son’s toy, and now he’s threatened his life! I want him arrested. Right now! I’m pressing charges!”

“Ma’am,” the Marshall says, “This isn’t your son’s toy.”

“Of course it is,” she says. “I bought it at Wal-Mart yesterday. Cost me nearly twenty dollars.”

He holds the silencer up so she can get a good look at it. “You’re telling me this belongs to you?”

She says, “I bought it for my son. It’s his. And I want it back.”

They look at me. I shrug.

“I was trying to secure the weapon,” I said. “I hadn’t realized it was her weapon.”

“Ma’am,” the Marshall said. “You’re going to have to come with me.”

“What?”

“This is part of a weapon. You claim it’s yours. Now we have to report it.” To me he says, “Sorry, Agent Payne, but we’re going to have to confiscate the silencer. It was found on airport property, and it’s about to become evidence. We’re going to have to keep it.”

“Of course,” I say. “Now that we know it’s hers.”

“Mine?” the woman says. “I thought it was the flute I bought my kid yesterday at Target.”

“You said Wal-Mart,” I pointed out, helpfully.

“You shut the fuck up!” she yells.

The Marshall holding the silencer says, “Come with me, ma’am. And if you blow that whistle again, I’m going to cuff you.” They start walking away, so I start walking in the opposite direction.

“Agent Payne?” he calls out.

Shit. He probably wants to make me part of the paperwork. I turn around.

“Yes?”

“It just dawned on me that no one’s thanked you for your vigilance. I appreciate your quick thinking. Sorry it only served to draw attention to you.”

“No problem.”

We continue walking in opposite directions. The mother is fussing loudly all the way to the door of the Marshall’s Lounge. I keep calling it a lounge, but there’s also a small conference room in there, where the Marshalls can get some work done while waiting for their next assignment. I turn to watch as they enter, and see the boy looking at me angrily. I stick my tongue out at him, and he gives me the finger.

Then I call Lou and order another silencer.

“I can’t get one to fit your gun,” he says. “Yours is custom.”

“Then get me a new gun to go with it.”

“That’s easy. But the bomb’s still a problem.”

“Why?”

“I can’t get anyone there in time that’s not local. And the local guys won’t detonate a bomb in their own airport.”

“Will they bring me one?”

“Yes.”

“Fine. Have them bring me the bomb, detonator, gun, and silencer.”

“You up to handling all that by yourself?”

“Unless your guy wants to shoot the bad guys.”

“I’d say you’re on your own.”

We work out the details for how the bomb guy will find me. It won’t be easy, but I’ve established myself among the security folk, and should be able to pull it off.

36.

I thought about having the bomb guy simply walk in the front door and hand me the duffel. But even though I’m trusted by the security staff, watchful civilians might take note of the exchange, and report me. If that happens, someone will surely check the duffel, and I’ll find myself crowded into the Marshall’s lounge with my least-favorite family.

So I’ve decided to have the bomb guy ride into the loading area with the getaway car driver. He’ll wait for me there, show me how to detonate the charge, and I’ll help him get through the security door and into the airport so he can catch a cab and be long gone before the action starts.

Lou and I confirm the timetable and synchronize our watches. Then I turn off my cell phone and remove the battery.

I’ve officially gone dark.

Now all I have to do is wait for the weapons to arrive. Then place the explosive. Then wait for the limo driver to show up with his sign. Then see if anyone approaches him. Then start shooting.

Are you beginning to understand the difference between a hit man and an assassin?

37.

I grab a burger, use the bathroom, check my watch. It’s nine p.m. So much going on right now.

My weapons are about to arrive, but my mind is back in Vegas, where Lucky and Gwen are entertaining Maddie. Which means Gwen and Maddie are naked, doing whatever it is they do to each other while Lucky watches. I’m not sure how I feel about it. I’m a little jealous, I think, and more than a little muffed.

I mean miffed.

I pause, thinking about it. I’m going to go out on a limb and say Gwen won’t participate. Not because I wore her out this afternoon, but because she and I have come a long way in the past day and a half. We’ve not only made a strong connection, we’ve also learned a great deal about each other.

And we’ve been intimate.

I might be wrong, and I know it’s crazy early in our relationship, but—don’t laugh—I believe she’s starting to fall in love with me.

I know.

And brace yourself: I’m developing strong feelings for her.

I know what you’re thinking: every time I sleep with a woman, I fall in love.

Well, you’re right. I have no defense, other than to tell you I only sleep with women who have a special effect on me. Yeah, I know. That sounds like horseshit, even to me.

I know what else you’re thinking: every time I fall in love, something goes wrong. Sooner, not later.

True. But maybe this time things will be different.

I think about how alike we are, and how fate has brought us together. I mean, think about it: I’ve got a chip implanted in my brain, Gwen has a device implanted in her breast. My life is literally in her titty. You can’t make this shit up.

I take a deep breath and decide that what’s happening right now in Vegas needs to stay in Vegas, because I’ve got much more important things to worry about.

If my theory about M is correct, he and his accomplices have landed, and are sitting at the same gate at this very minute. I look at the escalator that leads to the hallway that leads to the gate terminals. People going up one side, heading to outbound flights, others coming down to claim their bags. If I’m right, the four terrorists are on the other end of that hallway. If I’m right, I’m within a mile of them.

If I’m right.

A cold chill of adrenalin surges through my veins, just thinking about it.

They’re here.

I can feel them.

We’re so close.

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.