Vegas Moon

40.

The first thing I see upon entering the main baggage claim area is a line of limo drivers, all of whom are holding signs. I scan them as I walk by, but don’t see the name Diego Santosch. Good thing, since M’s driver shouldn’t be in this area.

Just beyond the rental car kiosks, I come to Carousel #6. I take up my position by the conveyor belt on the far side, next to the opening where the baggage exits.

A dozen men and women are standing around, waiting for bags from the previous flight. I glance at my watch. M’s flight should be arriving in twelve minutes. I’m positive he’s not on it, but don’t see anyone in the vicinity of Carousel #6 who I’d profile as a possible terrorist.

More people wander into the area. Most position themselves near the baggage entrance. A few gather at the middle. No one is standing near me. A few more people drift in. Among them is a well-dressed man in a suit, holding a sign at his side. I’m sure this is the driver. The fact he hasn’t lifted the sign tells me he knows M hasn’t arrived in the area yet. That doesn’t mean he knows M. It could simply mean he knows the flight hasn’t arrived yet.

Five minutes passes, and now there are thirty people standing around the conveyor belt. One lady walks past the others and takes up a position fifteen feet from me, and turns around to face the baggage entrance door. She’s foreign, but I can’t place her nationality based on the quick glance I got.

Suddenly I spot two men that could be my targets. One standing at the center of the conveyor, where it makes a half circle, the other looking around, as if trying to find a porter to help with his luggage.

Only he doesn’t seem to notice the porter standing near the rental car kiosk a mere thirty feet away.

If something’s going to happen, I hope it’s now, because the area’s not too crowded yet, and I have clear sight lines to the driver.

I’m looking at the driver, and the guy who’s looking around. The driver puts his right hand in his pocket, and holds the sign up with his left hand. I focus on the hand in his pocket. He’s holding something that could be a small gun. The guy who’s being far too obvious about looking around suddenly notices the sign and holds up his hand. He walks over to the driver, who lowers the sign but keeps his hand in his pocket.

This isn’t going down the way I expected. The two of them are standing there, making small talk. More people are heading toward Carousel #6. Dozens of them. If I wait much longer, I won’t have a clear shot.

I don’t know what M looks like, but I’m positive the guy standing by the driver isn’t him. I’m also positive the driver is holding a gun in his right pocket. As the people are about to overtake our carousel, I glance at the trash can to make sure there’s no one within fifteen feet of it. There’s not.

But where’s M?

Where the fuck is M?

I have to do something.

I put my hand in the duffel, turn slightly, and shoot the driver. The face of the guy standing next to him registers shock as he sees blood squirting from the driver’s chest. He turns and looks at me. I shoot him, and pause a split second, then fire two shots at the foreign lady whose back is to me. Both shots slam into the base of her skull. The impact spins her around, and she lands on her back. As it registers through the crowd that three people are on the floor, bleeding, I run toward the lady, as if attempting to offer help. At the same time I reach into my pocket for the detonator. As I get to her, I press the button, and the trash can explodes. People everywhere are screaming and ducking for cover. No one is looking in my direction. Standing over the lady, I shoot her point blank between the eyes, turn, and run through baggage exit, down the conveyor belt, out the door, and into the car.