Slash and Burn

Chapter 22

Little Fork airport wasn’t large. It didn’t take international passengers. It was only in the last few years that any kind of passengers had flown there. Before that it was strictly freight. However, the sudden land boom around Little Fork had forced the airport to follow the times. Across the way, through the falling snow, I could make out a large building under construction. It was due to open in the spring of next year, according to messages on some massive billboards. For now, serving as the flight terminal, there was a single-storey building, low and squat and constructed from steel and glass. The only concrete I could see was on the floor. One side of the building was for arrivals, the other for departures. Everyone shared the same checking-in doors, coming or going. Security was pretty non-existent. There were only a handful of people in the departure area, and most of them were too busy watching the overhead announcement board to pay me much attention.

The flight to Frankfort was delayed.

So was the one to Louisville and to Lexington and Jackson and Hardinsburg and all the other major airports in the state. It looked like I was in for a long wait.

I got coffee from a vending machine and a sandwich from another and I sat down in a corner where I could watch the entrance doors. If this was a major airport I’d have been searched, but because it handled only internal flights, I had my SIG in its customary place in the small of my back. The Glock I’d taken from the man on the stairs at le Cœur de la Ville was buried beneath my spare clothes in my backpack. If anyone challenged my right to carry the guns, I had fake documents that said I was a US air marshal and I’d be left alone.

Back at the hotel where I’d collected my things, I’d phoned in a flight booking. I was warned there might be delays, but the blizzard was forecast to blow itself out within the next hour. That was three hours ago. It was worst-case scenario to me. I had to get moving, and sitting there was doing nothing to change that.

For another two hours no flights took off from Little Fork. Neither did any planes land. The only good thing about the storm was that it was working both ways. I couldn’t get out, but neither could Huffman’s hired killers get in.

I checked for messages on Kate’s mobile phone. I was hoping that Imogen had got back to me, but she hadn’t. The message I’d sent to Imogen’s voicemail had always been a long shot, but I was still hopeful. I put the phone away. Getting up from my chair, I wandered through the terminal. All the flights were still delayed. I purchased more coffee. It was black and strong. I needed it: it had been a long day and wasn’t finished yet. Not by a long way.

Back in my seat, I watched the entrance doors. I was expecting Aitken’s crew to arrive at any second. He would have been released from the cuffs by now. He’d be back at the station house and coordinating a search for me. Judge Wallace would have come round as well. He’d have told Aitken my name. They’d have had the flight bookings checked. My real name wouldn’t show: I was booked under a false one. But if they had any sense they’d put two and two together. They’d know that my cover was false if they ever got round to thinking about it.

Something about the no show of the police was beginning to bother me. Made me wonder what the hell was going on. Maybe Aitken and Wallace were just a little slow on the uptake, but surely one of them — or their people — would have thought to check out the airport by now? Maybe Huffman had ordered them to back off. If I was locked in a prison cell it would take away the enjoyment of having me battle his hired guns: I wouldn’t be much of a challenge to them then. Plus, my usefulness in finding Imogen Ballard would be nil. Huffman wanted me dead, but he wanted Imogen more.

I was on my third coffee when the blizzard finally stopped. However it was a full two hours after that before the display boards changed and showed that a flight to Frankfort would be leaving at 09:55 a.m., which was only twenty-five minutes away. Almost eleven hours after I’d sent the Dodge Ram through the front windows of le Cœur de la Ville, it looked like I would finally be on the move.

When it came time to board the plane, I hung back to the last moment. There were only twelve other passengers. I made unlucky thirteen. I’m superstitious, a lot of military people are, and on any other occasion I’d have looked around hopefully for any stragglers who would change the number in my favour. But this time I actually wanted to be certain I was the last man aboard. It was my only way to be sure that no one was following me.

The airplane was a Beechcraft 1900 air taxi, used for commuting between Little Fork and Frankfort, and only had nineteen passenger seats. There was no galley or flight attendant, and it was down to the co-pilot to secure the doors before flight. Ten of my fellow fliers were men, the final two being an old woman and a small boy. No one on board gave me any negative vibes, and I settled into a seat at the back of the craft and closed my eyes.

Take-off was a little bumpy. But then we climbed up above the remnants of the storm and things became smoother. It was a short hop to Frankfort, and I dozed all the way. I hadn’t slept since early yesterday morning, and I needed the nap.

Frankfort hadn’t been touched by the snow but the skies were heavy and grey. We landed at Capital City Airport to a slight drizzle. I was OK with that. The rain wouldn’t halt my connecting flight to Dallas. Disembarking the plane, I could see Boone National Guard Center across the single runway. There was no activity at the military base. I made my way to the arrivals terminal, tagging along with the old lady and the boy. All the other men were wearing suits and ties and I’d have stood out in their crowd.

Using my fake ID, I purchased tickets for my onward journey; then I had to sit and wait until my plane was ready to go.

Capital City was bigger than Little Fork airport, but not by much. I could see the people queuing to board the Beechcraft 1900 I’d recently departed. None of them looked like professional killers, but you never could tell. Top assassins don’t look like killers, they look like your average next-door neighbour. I doubted Huffman’s team would be travelling the same route as I had. Likely they’d have chartered a flight direct from Fort Worth to Little Fork. I’d probably missed them by the skin of my teeth.

Part of me regretted the fact.

Maybe I should have waited for the bastards at Little Fork and killed every last one of them as they stepped out the airport. It would have changed everything. I wouldn’t feel like I was running, which was never a good feeling.

An hour later I was on a corporate Jetstream 41, heading south-west for Dallas Fort Worth. We flew over Arkansas and into Texas and I exited the plane into a sunny day. It wasn’t hot, just warm, but it was a pleasant change after the blizzard. Not that I could spend too much time enjoying the sun on my face. I’d just entered my enemy’s territory and from now on must be on my guard at all times.

As soon as I’d cleared arrivals, I pulled out Kate’s phone and checked for messages. Still none. I rang Rink.

‘Where are you?’ he asked.

‘DFW.’

‘What took you so long?’

I told him about the snowstorm.

‘Cool.’

‘Where are you?’

‘With Harvey. We’re outside the airport. Do you want us to come and pick you up?’

‘No, I’ll take a cab. You guys follow and see if you can spot a tail. No one knows about you yet: I want to keep things that way.’

We arranged to meet at a motel off Route 80 on the outskirts of Arlington once we were sure no one was following me.

‘You ain’t going to believe what Harvey dug up on this Huffman character,’ Rink said. ‘Very interesting.’

‘I can’t wait.’