damn glow plug to light.
“Jesus, Pike, this is stupid. We’re on a riding lawn mower.”
“Too late. He’s going to ask what we’re doing no matter what, and we don’t have an answer.”
He shouted again, and I turned and waved, all smiles. It confused him. I could hear his brain ticking.
Who are they? They’re inside the security zone, so they must belong. But they don’t look like they belong.
In the end, the average person doesn’t want to believe something bad is happening, preferring to find the reason that makes sense. This man was no different. The glow plug finally lit, and I fired up the engine, then drove away. The man stared and I waved again, shouting absolute gibberish. He waved back, a confused look on his face.
I hit the gas and Jennifer clawed at my waist, almost falling off the back. When she was seated again I said, “Get the tablet up. Where’s the phone?”
She fiddled with it a bit, waiting on the 3G connection to lock, then said, “He’s no longer at the warehouse. He’s on the move. Coming down the tarmac.”
“Are we going to pass him?”
She studied the track, which wasn’t real-time. There was a delay, forcing her to predict. “Yeah, he’s driving north. We’ll hit him when we make the turn toward terminal two.”
Vehicles were passing us left and right, but so far nobody thought it odd that a baggage cart was riding two-up with a man in the front, without a uniform, and a chick on the back looking like she was going to a motorcycle rally.
We rounded the corner, passing terminal two, and Jennifer said, “He’s here. Right here.”
I started looking back and forth, seeing vehicles from pickups to fire-rescue, all with Filipinos driving. We’d both seen Bayani’s picture, but it was hard identifying the drivers at speed.
Jennifer jerked my arm, “There! Right there. The guy on the Gator.”
I looked and saw a man driving a four-by-four vehicle with a bed in the back. Something that looked like a cross between an ATV and a golf cart. I continued forward and focused on the face.
That’s him.
He was approaching at an angle, and I went through options. We were out on the tarmac, so any action would cause a reaction from the official folks who worked the airport.
Unless you make it look like an accident.
I veered toward the Gator and floored it. He saw me coming and tried to avoid the accident, but I anticipated and caught him turning right. I slammed into his left rear tire at the relatively slow pace of about fifteen miles an hour, throwing us both forward. I started cursing immediately, pointing at him and waving my arms.
He studied both of us, his eyes seeing things that I’d hoped to hide. He grabbed a black Cordura nylon bag and took off running. I leapt out of the saddle, hitting the ground and feeling my thigh scream.
“Jennifer, get him!”
She was already on the pavement, running flat out. I followed as fast as I could, hating my damn wound and willing Jennifer to take him like she had Chase. I needn’t have worried.
She caught him, clamping an arm on his shoulder. He wheeled around, shouting and swinging a fist. She ducked and nailed him underneath the chin, dropping him flat out. She was searching him by the time I got my gimpy leg to the fight. I went to the bag. And felt the fear spread at what was inside.
Chapter 9
It was a bomb. But not just any bomb. An improvised explosive device with a barometric trigger, set to fire at thirty thousand feet. Designed to remain inert until the aircraft crested that altitude, with the unpressurized cargo hold causing the death of everyone aboard. At first, I breathed a sigh of relief, because the cargo holds of all commercial aircraft were pressurized, just like the passenger section. Then I remembered where he worked. What he did for a living. He would know that, which meant he’d found a way to emplace it into a section of the plane that wasn’t pressurized.
And there was only one.
I turned to
“Jesus, Pike, this is stupid. We’re on a riding lawn mower.”
“Too late. He’s going to ask what we’re doing no matter what, and we don’t have an answer.”
He shouted again, and I turned and waved, all smiles. It confused him. I could hear his brain ticking.
Who are they? They’re inside the security zone, so they must belong. But they don’t look like they belong.
In the end, the average person doesn’t want to believe something bad is happening, preferring to find the reason that makes sense. This man was no different. The glow plug finally lit, and I fired up the engine, then drove away. The man stared and I waved again, shouting absolute gibberish. He waved back, a confused look on his face.
I hit the gas and Jennifer clawed at my waist, almost falling off the back. When she was seated again I said, “Get the tablet up. Where’s the phone?”
She fiddled with it a bit, waiting on the 3G connection to lock, then said, “He’s no longer at the warehouse. He’s on the move. Coming down the tarmac.”
“Are we going to pass him?”
She studied the track, which wasn’t real-time. There was a delay, forcing her to predict. “Yeah, he’s driving north. We’ll hit him when we make the turn toward terminal two.”
Vehicles were passing us left and right, but so far nobody thought it odd that a baggage cart was riding two-up with a man in the front, without a uniform, and a chick on the back looking like she was going to a motorcycle rally.
We rounded the corner, passing terminal two, and Jennifer said, “He’s here. Right here.”
I started looking back and forth, seeing vehicles from pickups to fire-rescue, all with Filipinos driving. We’d both seen Bayani’s picture, but it was hard identifying the drivers at speed.
Jennifer jerked my arm, “There! Right there. The guy on the Gator.”
I looked and saw a man driving a four-by-four vehicle with a bed in the back. Something that looked like a cross between an ATV and a golf cart. I continued forward and focused on the face.
That’s him.
He was approaching at an angle, and I went through options. We were out on the tarmac, so any action would cause a reaction from the official folks who worked the airport.
Unless you make it look like an accident.
I veered toward the Gator and floored it. He saw me coming and tried to avoid the accident, but I anticipated and caught him turning right. I slammed into his left rear tire at the relatively slow pace of about fifteen miles an hour, throwing us both forward. I started cursing immediately, pointing at him and waving my arms.
He studied both of us, his eyes seeing things that I’d hoped to hide. He grabbed a black Cordura nylon bag and took off running. I leapt out of the saddle, hitting the ground and feeling my thigh scream.
“Jennifer, get him!”
She was already on the pavement, running flat out. I followed as fast as I could, hating my damn wound and willing Jennifer to take him like she had Chase. I needn’t have worried.
She caught him, clamping an arm on his shoulder. He wheeled around, shouting and swinging a fist. She ducked and nailed him underneath the chin, dropping him flat out. She was searching him by the time I got my gimpy leg to the fight. I went to the bag. And felt the fear spread at what was inside.
Chapter 9
It was a bomb. But not just any bomb. An improvised explosive device with a barometric trigger, set to fire at thirty thousand feet. Designed to remain inert until the aircraft crested that altitude, with the unpressurized cargo hold causing the death of everyone aboard. At first, I breathed a sigh of relief, because the cargo holds of all commercial aircraft were pressurized, just like the passenger section. Then I remembered where he worked. What he did for a living. He would know that, which meant he’d found a way to emplace it into a section of the plane that wasn’t pressurized.
And there was only one.
I turned to
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