Keeping myself in the shadows, holding my breath, I dash across the pavement toward the hangar. It takes just seconds. I flatten myself against a dark outside wall, two stories, no, three stories high. I peer around the corner into the building.
In the center of the hangar, under a huge bank of glaring megawatt spotlights, is a sleek white prop plane, a single-engine Cessna, nose pointed toward the tarmac.
And, crumpled on the cement floor, is Keresey. Limp and motionless. I clutch the door frame for support as my stomach lurches, throwing me off balance. Is she…dead? I watch, paralyzed. Mesmerized. I see her chest rise, then fall. She’s breathing. Struggling for equilibrium, struggling for calm, I plaster myself against the outside wall again. Trying try to figure out what the hell to do.
I need one more look inside. I have to see what they’re doing. And then I’ll go for help.
The muscles in my neck and back tense as I lean forward, infinitesimally, toward the opening, barely daring to move.
Now, in the light, I can clearly see the two men. And I recognize them. The blue-uniformed skycaps from baggage claim. Muttering to each other, they’re ignoring the still-motionless Keresey. Both are focused on the plane, its propeller motionless, its wheels still chocked with yellow blocks.
One of them, shorter, with buzz-cut hair and padded ear protectors around his neck, walks along the fuselage, then examines something under the right wing. The taller one unlatches the cockpit door, grabs a strap, and pulls his rangy body up into the pilot’s seat. I can see their shirts have embroidered patches on the arms-Local 376. Airline workers’ union. James Webber’s rank and file.
I not only recognize these guys, I recognize what they’re doing. This is a preflight check. What if they’re going to take Keresey away? What will happen when they find out she’s not me?
If I leave to get help, they could be gone, airborne, before anyone can get here to stop them.
I lean back against my wall again, staring, unseeing, toward the terminal. I’m baffled. And enraged. And terrified. And bewildered. Lattimer must have seen this go down. Franklin, too. Where on earth are they? This is not how this was supposed to work. I’m alone. And faced with an impossible dilemma.
I can’t go in. They’d overpower me, too.
I can’t leave. They’ll take Keresey away and disappear.
What’s more-it was supposed to have been me picking up that bag. If Keresey hadn’t insisted, it would have been me on the floor. It would have been me in mortal danger.
And suddenly, overwhelmingly, that makes me mad as hell. And I know how I can win. Keresey pretended to be me. So I’ll pretend to be Keresey.
I have her gun. And her radio. And I know how to use them both. The realization hits me so hard my eyes sting with tears. Channeling my new alter ego, I know I have to become as steely and hard as any federal agent. Now. What would Keresey do?
I see both men are focused on the plane. Before I can stop myself, I press my back against the wall and ease around the corner. I’m inside the hangar, keeping myself hidden by the shadows. I wait, assessing. No one notices me.
I crouch down behind a baggage cart, one of a dozen-some full of suitcases, some empty-lined up in front of me along the wall. Slowly, one click at a time, I pull back the zipper on Keresey’s purse, holding one hand over the opening to muffle the noise. It’s so quiet I fear even the clicks of a plastic zipper coil might give me away. After an eternity, the bag is open. And there are my secret weapons. The radio. The gun. Feeling a rush of power and impending triumph, I settle in, making sure I’m concealed behind the hulking baggage cart. I don’t have to make a move yet. And the longer I wait, the more likely Lattimer will finally arrive and end this whole disaster.
Tall Guy climbs out of the cockpit and walks to one of the baggage carts.
“Hey. Nolan,” he calls to Short Guy. His voice echoes through the hangar, alien and hollow. “Let’s get this done.”
Nolan yanks a black suitcase from a cart on the other side of the hangar. It’s huge, almost a trunk. “Jesus Christ, Eddie,” he hisses. “Get over here. I need a hand with this sucker.”
Together, the men drag the trunk across the floor, the scraping of metal on cement reverberating across the room. They reach Keresey. And stop. Nolan clicks two latches on the side. The top flips open and they both look inside. What’s in there? Is that where they’re going to put Keresey?
“Eddie, you done?” Nolan says. “She ready to go? He told us fifteen minutes.”
“Roger that. Preflight checks out. Just need to confirm the fuel shutoff. Check the fuel mix. Start the engine.” Eddie points to the Cessna, and both men head in that direction. “Unchock the wheels, yo. Let’s do this. Then we’re good to go as soon as it’s time.”
It’s clear whatever I’m going to do has got to be done soon. Gun first? Or radio?
I glance into my purse. And instantly my plan disintegrates. Even in the gloom and shadows, I can see my secret weapons are duds. I’ve got a radio, all right. But it’s a dead chunk of metal and plastic. No lights flash, no speaker buzzes. It’s been turned off.
And I have a gun. That’s good. But it’s not loaded. That’s bad. The magazine lies in the bottom of the bag, taunting me.
If I turn on the radio, the static and squawk will instantly telegraph where I am. If I slam the magazine into the Smith & Wesson, the sound will be a dead giveaway. I’m trapped by the silence. Where the hell is Lattimer?
And then I see Keresey move.
She stretches one leg, slowly. She shifts one arm from across her face. I can see her eyes. They’re open. And blinking.
Eddie’s in the cockpit, in the pilot’s seat. Nolan’s by the open passenger door, back to me, looking into the plane. No one is paying attention to Keresey but me. She’s up on one elbow. And she must comprehend what’s happened. And maybe what’s about to happen.
There’s a whine and a rattle, then the propeller begins to whirl into motion. And that’s all the noise I need.
I slam the magazine into place. Ratchet ammo into the chamber, just like Keresey taught me. The clatter of the propeller fills the room, racketing against the metal walls and rattling the metal girders across the ceiling. I spring from behind the luggage cart and roar into the dim light, my adrenaline powering into the red zone. I’m almost screaming.
“Federal agent!” I yell. Both hands are wrapped around the weapon, just as Keresey taught me. The forefinger of my right hand flat against the barrel. My feet wide apart, braced, the gun aimed straight at Tall Guy. I hope. “Freeze! Freeze! Freeze! You’re done! You’re done!”
Nolan turns away from the plane, mouth open, his face twisted in surprise, then rage. He slams the cockpit door closed.
Short Guy cuts the engine, the propellers slacken, then stop. In a split second, Nolan’s reaching behind his back. He takes a step away from the plane, then two.
“Charlie! Shoot! Now! Aim for body mass, like I taught you!” Keresey’s yelling as she tucks her elbows and rolls toward me. She scrabbles to her feet, still yelling. “Now, now, now!”
“FBI! Freeze! And both of you-back off!” Marren Lattimer’s voice bellows through the hangar. “Do it!”
Holding the biggest and loveliest gun I’ve ever seen, Lattimer strides across the floor, leather jacket, running shoes, badge around his neck, brandishing his weapon at Nolan. “I said do it! Back off. Do it! Show me your hands, asshole. Then put both hands on the plane.”
Nolan retreats, hesitating, wary, walking backward, hands outstretched. They’re empty.