Vegas Moon

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.

I’ve got a plan.

I’ll make it work.

I start walking toward the security door. While I walk, I scan the endless concrete around me…

…And see a black sedan entering the far gate.