"Uh…"
"It'll only take a second." She pulls me over to the stranger.
Late thirties, clean cut, he could be FBI or some kind of government agent. "Are you the stranded pilot?" he asks.
At first I think he says astronaut and I feel my mouth go numb. "Maybe?" It's the dumbest possible reply.
He holds out his hand. "I'm Jeff Sigler. Gary over there and I are flying a charter to Los Angeles tonight. We're on standby, waiting for some Brazilian soccer player to get packed. Your friends said you needed a jump seat back to the States."
"Uh… that would be great."
"There's a catch. Our third man caught the flu. You'd be filling in for him."
If he asks to see my pilot certification I'm screwed. I already have to figure out how to make it through passport control — but that's doable if we go through an executive airport.
"What kind of gear?" I ask.
"G6. But don't worry. We just need you to be the inflight attendant. Our client's wife won't let him have any female crew."
I make a sound that resembles laughter but is actually my soul slipping back into my body.
"That would be great!"
"Cool. We're going to grab something to eat then go check the plane. Do you need to get your luggage from the hotel?"
Um, that. It does look rather suspicious that I don't have a suitcase or anything else besides the clothes I'm wearing.
"I can have it sent over." Whatever that means. "Thank you, you're a real life saver."
"No problem."
He and Connie go back to the tables and I find the bathroom so I can lock myself inside a stall and let all the nervous energy leave me.
I pull out my phone and load up Twitter. I have no new followers. @CapricornZero has not deigned to follow me back or send me any helpful tweets.
Should I send him a public @reply? What if he's been compromised? The Workmen and the Russians knew where to find me at the stadium… was there some kind of leak?
A public response would be stupid. Somebody could trace my tweet and figure out where I am. Sure, the account is anonymous, but I'm sure there's all kinds of device data and location information that can pinpoint me — especially if I'm dealing with government intelligence agencies.
It's enough that I followed him and he has a way to reach me. Something must have happened.
Was Capricorn really my contact at the stadium? Did he get killed in the shooting?
Hell, what if Capricorn was one of the Workmen or a Russian kill team member?
Did I just mess up their attempt to assassinate me and take the black square? Whoops.
I take the McGuffin out of my pocket and inspect it for the first time. I've been running so much I haven't even stopped to figure out what it is.
Two inches on each side and the thickness of several credit cards, I can spot a row of metallic contact points along one edge. It sort of looks like a large SD card.
I take some water from the sink and wash away the blood. There are some faint letters and numbers in the corner. The letters are Cyrillic. Which would make sense, because it was stolen off a Russian space station.
But what is it? It could be some kind of proprietary memory module, although I'm not sure why they wouldn't just use something standard. Is it shielded to protect it from high-altitude cosmic rays? Or is it thick because it does something else?
A quick Google search isn't much help, so I decide this is a mystery I'll have to resolve somewhere else beside the bathroom in a Rio bar.
When I head back out to the table, Jeff and Gary are devouring their food while the rest of the group is discussing where to go for their dinner.
"You ready?" asks Jeff. "We just got the word our passenger is heading to the airport soon."
I say goodbye to my new friends and take down their Facebook info, promising to add them once I have WiFi.
I'm a little nervous as I get into a taxi with these new people, suspicious that it's some clever plot to separate me from everyone else.
If it is, then I give up. There's no way I can keep up with minds that devious or resourceful.
We arrive at the executive section of the airport where they park all the private jets. The guard at the gate takes a look at Jeff's passport and pilot's license through the window and waves us on through.
We exit the taxi, make it to the private terminal and get waved through yet another door by a military police officer.
While the word is out about the American astronaut on the run, I'm clearly just a pilot hanging out with two other pilots.
I feel a wave of relief as I step out of the building and onto the tarmac.
The scent of jet fuel smells like freedom.
Two seconds later I get cold feet when I see a third cop standing by a motorcycle, directly between us and the plane.
This third layer of security is unusual. He's actually checking people before they get on the plane.
As Jeff and Gary walk right up to him, I hover behind.
The cop looks at something on his phone — probably my photo — then miraculously waves us on.
It seems the head shave and fake tan were the smartest things I've ever done.
Jeff and Gary start to do an inspection. I stay on the opposite side of the nose, too afraid to go inside the plane and get trapped if something happens.
I make mindless banter with them as they go about their business.
I'm a little distracted and don't notice the black SUV pulling across the asphalt until it's just a few hundred feet away.
32
Air Show
The SUV is cruising by very slowly. The windows are dark, but I can see the silhouette of two men in the front seat and two in the back as it passes in front of a light.
I move behind the fuselage of the plane and pretend to inspect the airspeed sensor on the nose. While I can't see the SUV from here, I can see its shadow on the tarmac.
And it just came to a stop…
Keep calm, David. They could just be passengers. Hell, it could be our Brazilian soccer player.
Sure, maybe they're federal police of some kind. But they're probably everywhere. Just be another pilot inspecting a plane.
Don't be a panicked guy about to go on the run at the drop of a hat. How many times was I going to do that tonight?
If I'd ran off in the hotel bar I would never be this close to getting a ride back to the United States.
This close…
The doors to the SUV open.
Beat.
Beat.
Beat.
And they don't close.
I hear footsteps from several men walking across the pavement.
I casually drift to my right so I'm blocked by the landing gear and lean down to have a look.
It's the Russians from the stadium.
Fuck my life.
They're speaking to the policeman.
One of the them spots me and knocks the policeman out of his way and starts firing.
BANG!!! BANG!!! BANG!!! Bullets ricochet off the landing gear.
"GET DOWN!!!" I scream to Steve and Gary.
They don't need my advice to drop flat. The men hit the deck as the Russians run towards me.
I've got a thousand feet of empty runway ahead of me. They'll have no trouble gunning me down out in the open.
BANG!!! BANG!!!
The closest Russian falls flat on his face and skids — blood smears the tarmac out of a head wound.
I'm confused until I see the grounded policeman aim his pistol at the other Russians and they run to the other side of the SUV.
BANG!!! BANG!!! BANG!!! They fire back as he races to rear of their car.
The hatch to the jet is right in their kill zone. I'll never make it.
But the policeman's motorcycle is only a few yards away. I can even see the key in the ignition…
I run to the bike in a hunched position.
BANG!!! BANG!!! The Russians and the policeman exchange fire through the windows.