Cold Harbor (The Gibson Vaughn Series Book 3)

by Matthew Fitzsimmons

  Near the end of NW Service Road, Gibson saw Russert Aviation, a fixed-base operator and competitor of Tyner Aviation. All manner of private aircraft were parked around the Russert offices and hangars—from single-engine Cessnas and small Learjets all the way up to corporate Gulfstreams that ran into the tens of millions of dollars.

  He parked the van at the curb by the main doors. Jenn would be inside, and he waited two minutes for her to make herself scarce. He took the old Phillies cap from the pocket of his jacket and rubbed the brim between his thumb and forefinger. When it was time, he put the cap back in his pocket and got out of the van. Duke was there waiting for him.

  “Good luck,” his father said.

  “Really?”

  “Just trying it out. Don’t get used to it.”

  Gibson pushed through the revolving doors into Russert Aviation. Indistinct jazz filled the wide, tastefully furnished lobby, which reminded Gibson of a hotel. Russert offered a gourmet bistro, conference room, fitness center, and showers. Everything needed for a budding jet-set lifestyle. At this late hour, the lights, tastefully dimmed, accentuated the views out the floor-to-ceiling windows. Not that there was anyone there to appreciate the effect apart from the counter agent, who greeted Gibson with a cheerful wave.

  “Greetings, friend!” the counter agent said as if Gibson’s unexpected appearance had just made life worth living again. The man’s perky, energetic persona belied the fact that it was almost midnight. A night owl for the night shift, and a little ray of sunshine on a cold, dark night. Although Russert was technically a competitor of Gibson’s putative employer, he hadn’t seen any trace of rivalry among the employees, who largely saw themselves as brothers-in-arms against the barely controlled chaos of airport life. Gibson was depending on exactly that now.

  They exchanged pleasantries while the agent continued typing busily at his terminal. Behind him sat Jenn’s brand-new luggage—four expensive, hard-sided suitcases decorated in brash floral patterns that proved money didn’t buy taste. Overkill, perhaps, but their weapons and gear weighed significantly more than clothes, so they’d chosen to spread them out to avoid raising suspicion. The counter agent finished typing and looked up at Gibson.

  “So what brings you to our humble corner of the world?”

  Gibson leaned on the counter and adopted a weary posture. This part of the plan demanded finesse, because to work it required his new friend here to break protocol. If the counter agent picked up the phone and called over to Tyner Aviation, then they were cooked. It would be the sensible thing to do, so Gibson would have to give the man a good reason not to do it.

  Gibson looked around the empty lobby. “Well, I was hoping you could help me out, but it doesn’t look like it.”

  “Sorry to hear that. What’s the problem?”

  “Well, I’ve sort of lost a plane,” Gibson confessed.

  “You lost a what, now? How is that . . .”

  The counter agent trailed off as a woman burst out of the bathroom at the far end of the lobby. Gibson turned and joined him in staring. Intellectually, he knew it was Jenn, but that didn’t mean he recognized her.

  She had warned him that she intended to go bold and loud, but he hadn’t known exactly what that meant until now. She wore a cap-sleeve black cocktail napkin of a dress with a plunging V-neck that ended not far from where Gibson imagined her belly button to be. That was about all it did leave to the imagination. Add to that four-inch heels and enough gold jewelry to start a new currency, and the garishness of her luggage suddenly made much more sense. The oversized black sunglasses were an especially nice touch, given the hour.

  Jenn crossed the lobby toward them much the way German panzers had crossed into Poland—rampant and undeniable. She had not been subtle applying makeup—her cheekbones stood out like defiant cliffs, and the cruel red of her lips accentuated a contemptuous sneer. She slapped a burgundy Chanel handbag down on the counter like she’d just planted a flag on a newly conquered continent.

  “Well,” Jenn demanded in a hard Russian accent. “Have you found my fucking flight yet?”

  Gibson bit down on his tongue to stifle a laugh at her audacity. It worked perfectly.

  “No, but I am still looking,” the counter agent said.

  “I cannot be late,” she said. “If you make me late, I will . . .” She finished her threat in Russian before returning to English. “How is it you cannot find an airplane? Are there so many that you do not know where one is? Are you an idiot?”

  “Ma’am, I am looking, but I have nothing scheduled for this morning. Are you certain you have the right day?”

  Jenn’s expression turned to molten rage. Through clenched teeth, a stream of hot Russian poured out. Gibson didn’t speak a word himself, but he knew tone of voice well enough to know that the counter agent’s family had just been cursed for generations to come. The counter agent looked miserable but stood politely by while Jenn belittled him. Somehow his helpful smile never wavered. Gibson waited for an opening and threw him a lifeline.

  “Excuse me. Did you say you were meeting a plane?” Gibson asked, but the counter agent wasn’t getting off that easy. It took Gibson three more attempts before Jenn deigned to acknowledge his existence. Her performance was so convincing that, for a moment, Gibson felt irritated by her grandstanding. He knew she was good, but he had no idea she was this good. He hadn’t known Jenn in her CIA days, but the Agency had been fools to let her get away.

  “What?” she demanded, turning on Gibson as if taken aback that there was anyone else in the building. “What is it you want?”

  “You’re supposed to meet a plane?”

  “Yes, this is what I am saying. Are you also an idiot?”

  Gibson glanced over at the counter agent. They were nearing the sales pitch, and Gibson wanted to take his temperature. The counter agent gave him a helpless, sympathetic nod, which Gibson took as a positive indicator. To help push the needle a little further in their favor, Jenn went back to assaulting him in Russian. Gibson let her go a few more rounds before stepping in again.

  “Are you a guest of Rupert Delgado?” Gibson asked.

  “Da. This is what I am trying to tell this fool.”

  “All right, there’s been a bit of a mix-up,” Gibson said.

  “She’s your missing plane?” the counter agent asked with relief in his voice.

  “What mix-up?” Jenn asked suspiciously.

  “You’re at the wrong FBO. When you landed, you should have been directed to Tyner Aviation. This is Russert.”

  “Tyner! Russert! I do not care. Why did you do this?” Jenn demanded, summoning her inner Romanov.

  “Ma’am, that was aircraft control, not us. The important thing now is that Mr. Delgado is ready to go,” Gibson said.

  “And I am not?” Jenn pronounced, emphatically gesturing to her own figure. If she’d had a mic in her hand, she’d have dropped it.

  “All right, then,” Gibson said, clapping his hands together. “Let’s get you to that plane.”

  “What about her aircraft?” The counter agent was pointing out to the ramp. “It can’t stay here.”

  Gibson played crestfallen. For obvious reasons, protocol required an aircraft be in its designated location. Proper procedure called for Jenn’s plane to be relocated immediately.

  Gibson nodded emphatically. “Yeah, of course. Where’s her pilot? Are they still air-side? Can they move it?”

  “She’s the pilot,” the counter agent said.

  “She’s a pilot?” Gibson feigned disbelief.

  He didn’t know how Jenn made herself flush on command, but she went the color of red-wine vinegar. She snatched a cell phone from her purse and walked away from the counter and launched into a fresh tirade to an imaginary girlfriend.

  “Wow,” Gibson mouthed despairingly at the counter agent, who exhaled in relief at the momentary reprieve.

  “Who is Rupert Delgado?” the counter agent asked.

  “Real estate. Worth a c
ouple billion. Not the world’s nicest guy, if you know what I mean.”

  “Yeah, I know the type. When does Delgado’s jet leave?”

  Gibson checked the time. “Twenty minutes.”

  “Want me to call over to your desk? Tell them to hold his flight while we take care of this?”

  Gibson took his time pretending to weigh the pros and cons in his mind. They’d reached the moment of truth, wherein the mark was convinced to break the rules to help a total stranger. But for it to work, Gibson couldn’t ask for the favor. It needed to be offered. So far, though, despite being sympathetic, the counter agent had played it by the book. Which meant it was time for the calculated gamble that lay at the center of their deception. Gibson had hoped it wouldn’t come to this.

  “Yeah, may as well,” Gibson said. “Delgado’s going to peel my face off.”

  The counter agent picked up the phone.

  Jenn hung up her imaginary call with a snarl and pivoted on Gibson. “Nyet. Nyet. You do not call. Rupert will not be happy. Not with me, with you. You understand me? We go now to the plane, or you will need new employment.”

  Jenn kept up her threats in an escalating spiral as Gibson begged her to be reasonable. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched the phone hover in the counter agent’s hand. Have a heart. Slowly, slowly, it lowered back into its cradle.

  “How soon can you get back here?” the counter agent asked.

  Jenn and Gibson went silent in unison.

  “Give me an hour?” Gibson said.

  “How about two?”

  Gibson could have kissed him.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  “You speak Russian?” Gibson asked when they were safely in the van.

  “Don’t you?” She held his gaze stonily for a long moment. The corner of her mouth flickered up in the memory of a smile.

  “I thought his head was going to explode.”

  “Let’s go before he changes his mind.”

  That sounded like a real good idea. Gibson threw the van in reverse and backed out. The Dulles Air Center and Titus Eskridge’s Hangar Six were all the way around on the far side of the airport, past Tyner Aviation. While Gibson drove them back the way he had come, Jenn disappeared into the back and opened one of the suitcases. She peeled off her dress, all the jewelry, and changed into black BDUs.

  “Now I see why you’re helping her,” Duke said with a smile.

  “Eyes front, Dad.”

  “And another angel gets his wings.”

  Jenn climbed back into the front seat to pull on her boots. With her Russian party-girl hair and makeup, it made for an interesting dichotomy.

  “What?” she asked suspiciously.

  “You got a little something on your face.”

  “Oh, shut the hell up. You know how long it would take to get all this off? I used so much hair spray it’s like a fiberglass beehive.”

  “No . . . you looked—”

  “Make peace with God before you finish that sentence.”

  The adrenaline relief of coming within a hair’s breadth of disaster made them both a little giddy. For a few minutes, they bantered back and forth like a couple of kids who had snuck out of the house past curfew. Quickly, though, the gravity of the situation reimposed itself, and they fell silent as the van passed between the main terminals. The operation had already had three close calls—the cop when Swonger hot-wired the van, the security guard at the checkpoint, and then the counter agent. Not being cats, they were fast running out of lives.

  The Cold Harbor flight wouldn’t depart for ninety minutes, which allowed Gibson to make a wide detour around the Tyner Aviation offices. The last thing they needed was for someone to glance up and wonder where one of their trucks was going at this hour. It gave Jenn time to review the next phase of the plan. Both knew it front to back, but Gibson let her talk. It focused her and settled him down. And if they were being absolutely honest, this was the point when their meticulous planning became little more than a series of branching contingencies. What the Marines called a fragmentary order—a set of standard operating procedures when plans needed to be drawn up in the field—if this, then that; if that, then this.

  The difference was, Marine units spent countless hours drilling those standard operating procedures. Jenn and Gibson had worked through theirs only in theory. They were a unit in name only. And to make matters worse, they were going up against professional mercenaries who had trained together for years. They had the element of surprise going for them and not much else.

  Sometimes that was enough.

  Calista had a source inside the company who had given them a detailed snapshot of a typical Cold Harbor supply run. But this flight was anything but typical. Eskridge was smuggling a kidnapped US citizen out of the country along with his mysterious cargo. Secrecy surrounding tonight had been draconian. Already deeply paranoid, Eskridge had managed all aspects of the flight personally. No one outside his immediate circle had been included, and Calista hadn’t dared push too hard for fear of raising suspicion.

  So Jenn and Gibson had planned for multiple contingencies, aware that Hangar Six would remain an unknown until they had eyes on it. Hence the four large suitcases—Jenn was prepared to fight several different battles depending on what they walked into in Hangar Six. Would Eskridge stick to his script and maintain Cold Harbor’s low profile? Or would he ramp up security and risk drawing unwanted attention from customs agents? They were about to find out.

  Jenn slung a lightweight nylon tactical rig over her shoulders as the Dulles Air Center rose into view. A white, V-shaped series of six interconnected hangars, the Air Center had its offices and customer center at the pivot, with three hangars on each side. Hangar Six was the last hangar on the northern wing and large enough to park a 747.

  From the outside, the customer center looked much the same as Russert Aviation, except that Gibson saw no one at the front desk. He tried the doors, but they were locked. He rang the overnight buzzer and hopped from foot to foot in the cold. A minute passed. He rang again. Jenn nodded tensely from the dark of the van when he glanced back. Finally, a woman in her forties appeared. She wore the expression of a pretty nineties sitcom wife whose plus-size husband had gotten up to his predictable shenanigans. Through the glass door, she asked what Gibson wanted. The keys in her hand jangled, but she made no move to unlock the door.

  “Yeah, hi,” Gibson said. “Did Mindy talk to you? I’m here to borrow a jack stand.”

  “I haven’t talked to a Mindy.”

  “Mindy didn’t call? No, of course she didn’t. Unbelievable,” he said, making it sound like the most believable thing he’d heard all year. Typical Mindy.

  “How long do you need it?”

  “An hour, maybe two. Tops.”

  She considered the request for a moment before kneeling to unlatch the door’s floor lock. After he was inside, she almost went to relock it behind him, but laziness won out. This was Dulles . . . what could happen?

  Gibson followed her through the lobby and into a back office. The same featureless jazz as Tyner Aviation’s played overhead. It gave Gibson the surreal feeling that he wasn’t making any progress at all. Duke sat in one of the armchairs in the lobby. He whistled tunelessly as his son passed.

  One half of the large back office was divided by a series of cubicles. A photocopier. Community table. A bank of security monitors occupied another corner. If the three men in the office hadn’t looked up at Gibson, they might have seen Jenn slip in the front door. Gibson raised a hand in greeting. Two looked to be mechanics, the third a customer service rep. Gibson didn’t spot any aspiring heroes among them, but one of the mechanics was a powerfully built man with camshaft arms. Gibson would keep an eye on him.

  “Any of you talk to a Mindy?” the sitcom wife asked.

  The three men shook their heads.

  “Unbelievable,” Gibson said again.

  “Don’t worry about it. We all know a Mindy,” she said.

  With
out knowing the details or Mindy, the room chuckled in agreement. More than love or family, incompetent management crossed all culture and language.

  Gibson grinned at them appreciatively. “Lot of you fellas here tonight,” he said. “How many of you do they have working this late?”

  That provoked some grumbling.

  “Six,” said one mechanic.

  “You believe that?” the other mechanic said.

  “We have a late flight going out,” the sitcom wife explained. “After that, most of us are out of here.”

  “Except me,” the customer service agent said. “I’m here forever.”

  “I hear that,” Gibson commiserated and took out his phone. He called Jenn, who picked up on the first ring.

  “Mindy,” Gibson said, rolling his eyes for the benefit of the crowd. “I’m over at DAC. Who did you talk to here?” He shook his head at her explanation. “Fine. Fine. Whatever. They’re going to help us out anyway, but it makes me look stupid is what it does.” He feigned listening again and made noises as though she were asking him a question. “Yeah, well, we have four total. I’ve ordered spares because two are missing. No, I’m not sure where they are. Yeah, six total.”

  Jenn confirmed the numbers and gave him a thirty-second count. Gibson hung up and threw his hands up at the ceiling dramatically.

  “Fucking Mindy,” one of the mechanics said on his behalf.

  “I appreciate the assist, guys.” Gibson walked toward them under the pretense of shaking their hands, starting with the big mechanic. He wanted to be in the way in case any of them took their bravery pills this morning.

  Jenn kicked in the office door.

  She was a specter clad in black from head to foot. A balaclava concealed her face. But Gibson bet the only detail they’d remember was the barrel of the Remington shotgun. Shotguns had a funny way of erasing all other memories. It was loaded with nonlethal beanbag rounds, but the only way to know would be to take one to the chest. It was a steep learning curve, and it would take a hardy soul to sit for that exam.