by Reid, Joseph
Instead, Max had her sunglasses off and wore a bright smile. It was the first time I’d gotten to see her eyes. “Pleasure to meet you,” she said sweetly.
Diane blushed. “I’m sorry, I’ve flown with a lot of celebrities, but seeing you here is a real treat.” She glanced up and down the aisle. “I don’t mean to impose—I never do things like this, I swear—but my nephew is just about your biggest fan. Is there any chance—”
Max’s smile grew even broader. “Do you have a pen?”
Diane scrambled off, then returned with a marker. Max drew the in-flight magazine from the seat pocket in front of her and began writing across the cover. “What’s his name?” she asked without looking up.
“Steven. With a v.”
Max filled almost the entire cover with handwriting before ending with a loopy, curvy signature that had two hearts next to it. She blew lightly across it, then handed it over.
Diane read the inscription quickly, then clutched the magazine to her chest. “Thank you so much! If there’s anything I can do during the flight—”
Max’s eyes sparkled. “Do you have any champagne?”
The question caught me sufficiently off guard that I didn’t say anything, but rather looked to Diane. Her face, beaming just a moment ago, now dropped. “I—I’m sorry, I don’t think I can do that.” Without another word, she scurried back to the forward galley.
“Bitch.”
I turned and saw that Max’s expression had turned scornful again.
“Hey,” I said, “watch it. You’re not old enough to drink. You’re only—” I realized I didn’t actually know the answer. “How old are you, anyway?”
“I turn seventeen in three weeks.”
“See, you’re not even close—”
“I drink champagne all the time.”
“You expect her to risk her job just so you can have a drink? Alcohol’s a serious—”
Max released a large sigh. “In Europe, there’s no drinking age, and they don’t have half the problems with alcohol that we do. It’s only here, where everyone’s so uptight—”
“That’s not true, and you’ll get her in big trouble. Besides, it’s not good for you.”
She slipped the sunglasses back onto her face, midway up her nose, leaving her eyes exposed. “You’re my protection, remember? Not my parent.” Then she pushed the glasses up into place and turned toward the window.
Max continued staring silently outside, eventually donning headphones as boarding began in earnest. The aisle filled with passengers, and as those behind us took time getting settled, the line moved in fits and starts. I scanned everyone who passed, but none seemed to be paying Max any special attention.
Once boarding was complete, Diane and the other attendants moved about the cabin, prepping for takeoff. They ignored Max’s headphones, and she remained lost in the world on the other side of the window. As we pushed back, she braced her foot on the frame of the seat in front of her and began bouncing it. She also twirled the tip of her braid between her fingers. Nervous or bored, I couldn’t tell.
Since it didn’t appear Max would be a great conversationalist, I started studying the passengers around us. The couple directly in front had needed wheelchair assistance and looked to be in their eighties—no threat there. Across the aisle, two business types were talking and laughing. They’d gotten cocktails while we’d been parked at the gate, and now it was impossible to tell if they were traveling together or just schmoozing. Both had big bellies, though, and didn’t look like they’d last long in a fight. The rest of business class looked like it usually did—mostly white, older than average, all exhibiting some sign or another of wealth: fine clothes, jewelry, fancy tech devices. No one I’d finger as an immediate threat.
Maybe Franklin was right.
I pulled a pad and mechanical pencil from my bag and set the paper in my lap. I liked to doodle schematics on flights, so I figured I’d see if something came to me.
Nothing did.
After we’d leveled off, the seat-belt sign darkened with a chime. Max immediately clicked out of her belt, retrieved a small purse from the seat pocket, and stood.
I simply stared at her.
After a moment, she blew some air through her nose. “Excuse me.”
“Where do you think you’re going?”
“Uh, the little girls’ room.”
I nodded at the purse. “Anything in there I need to worry about?”
“Oh please.”
“Seriously. Drugs, cigarettes, anything?”
Max spoke through clenched teeth. “I’m on the rag, okay?”
Not sure I’d ever heard it put quite that way, I slowly unbuckled and stood, releasing her into the aisle. While she strode quickly to the lav, I took my time sitting back down. No one appeared to be eyeing her. No one appeared to pay her any attention at all.
After several minutes, just as I was beginning to grow concerned, Max reemerged.
I rose and checked everyone along her route back while she moved in my peripheral vision. Her pace was slower this time, and the head of a balding white-haired guy in row four swiveled as she advanced up the aisle.
My right hand slid back toward my hip.
As Max drew within a row of him, the guy began gathering himself.
My hand closed around the grip of the Sig under my shirt, while the rest of my muscles tensed.
Max passed the man’s seat before he moved. He stood, looked up and down the aisle, then headed for the lav she’d just vacated.
I let my hand drop to my side as Max reached our row. Her expression had softened considerably, and she gave me a weak half smile as she stepped inside.
I hoped things might be improving.
Twenty minutes later, Max said she was cold, and asked me politely to retrieve a hooded sweatshirt from her bag overhead. I obliged and saw Diane starting the food service. Soon we each had trays in front of us containing a vegetable omelet, fruit, and some kind of Danish with jelly in the middle. I wolfed the eggs, then turned back to the fruit. Glancing over, I noticed Max was using her fork to tease small chunks of mushroom out of the omelet.
“Aren’t you hungry?”
“I don’t eat eggs,” she said.
“Allergic?”
She sighed. “Vegan.”
“Then eat your fruit,” I said in the most parental tone possible. “It’s good for you.”
Rolling her eyes, Max said, “I cannot wait to be rid of you.”
CHAPTER 3
Wednesday, July 15
When I reached the top of the baggage chute, I braced my feet on either side of the conveyor.
The rectangular opening, barely wider than my shoulders, was surrounded on three sides by a metal screen extending up over my head. That served as a backstop: the fourth side was open and featured another conveyor belt, which, given where I was standing, pointed directly at my chest. But that was all I could see: bathed in the shaft of light shining upward from below, the remainder of the room seemed impenetrably dark. A droning, mechanical hum nearly drowned out the gunfire that still rang out.
Sensing movement ahead, I squinted against the blackness.
Max?
But as the motion continued, it seemed too regular. Too smooth and mechanical.
Quickly, an outline formed: straight lines, right angles.
A particularly large, hard-sided suitcase hurtled toward me on the oncoming belt.
I glanced around, but there was nowhere to go. Even on tiptoes, the top of the screen stood several inches above my fingertips.
There was only one option. I made the best jump I could with my legs splayed.
Somehow my fingers managed to grab the top of the backstop. Its upper edge sliced into my palms as I tried to get a solid handhold. Farther down, the smooth metal felt slick as ice beneath my feet as I struggled to scramble upward.
I’d just reached the top of the screen when the suitcase slammed into it. Vibration from the impact rippled thro
ugh the metal, sending me toppling over the back side. I fell into the darkness until my hip struck something hard.
Rolling onto my back, my fingers found the floor beneath me. Smooth concrete.
As I sat up and took a breath, my eyes finally began to adjust. The ceiling hung extremely low, just a foot or two above the top of the metal I’d climbed over. Every few yards to my right and left, light shone up from another hole in the floor where another conveyor would send bags tumbling downward. The air smelled hot and musty, and the mechanical noise was even louder now, making the concrete rumble.
Following our conveyor belt backward with my eyes, I finally spotted Max huddled against a column several feet away, knees pulled up to her chest.
I started crawling toward her. When I got within two feet, she screamed.
The noise was masked by the conveyor’s hum, but her open mouth and the look of terror on her face was unmistakable.
Then I realized: her eyes were focused behind me.
I dropped to the concrete, rolled onto my back again, and drew the Sig in one motion.
A head had poked up through our hole in the floor. Another tattooed face.
His eyes must’ve needed a moment, too, as they blinked several times before recognizing me. That’s when my bullets hit him. His head dropped out of sight, leaving cascades of red splattered back against the silver metal of the collar.
Keeping the Sig trained on the hole, I shuffled backward to Max. She was huffing, hyperventilating, looking like she might vomit.
“This way,” I yelled over the din. When she didn’t budge, I got right up into her face, my eyes just inches from hers. “We can’t stay here. C’mon!”
Finally, she moved, and we began following the luggage conveyor backward into the darkness.
Wide eyes and open mouths greeted us as we emerged from the maze of the luggage system onto the airport tarmac. The small group of baggage handlers pointed to several police cruisers approaching from the runways, flashers spinning.
Airport cops.
They didn’t give me any great sense of relief. While it seemed like the tattooed bunch had given up on following us, I wasn’t about to hang around to confirm that. I needed to get Max away from here. Now.
My Jeep was parked in the short-term garage wedged in the middle of the semicircular collection of terminals. We could access it from any of them.
Between my badge and gun, I managed to convince one of the handlers to ferry us to the next terminal in his cart and open the door for us with his key card. Leading Max inside, I studied her face. She hadn’t said a word since the gunfire, and now her eyes were distant, almost catatonic. Although it was worrisome, I resigned myself to dealing with it later. “Just a little bit farther,” I told her.
When we reached the garage, I quickened our pace to a trot. Pulling Max along with my left hand, I kept my right hooked beneath my shirt, just in case. We stuck to the walls and crossed in the middle of aisles instead of the ends, weaving between cars as we went.
The Jeep was waiting exactly where I’d left it on the third floor.
I spread one of the blankets I always keep in the back across the floor of the trunk for Max to lie on, then draped another one over her body. Once she was tucked in, I jumped behind the wheel and got us moving.
I guessed that the airport police had blocked up World Way, the loop circling through the middle of the airport, back by arrivals, as all five lanes were eerily empty when we emerged from the garage. Normally, I’d have jumped on Sepulveda and cruised down through the tunnel beneath the runways before turning for home. Today, though, I steered us out onto Century Boulevard instead.
As the airport slipped away in the mirrors, late-afternoon traffic swelled around us. With a couple of turns, I merged onto the 405, heading south. A lot of cars, but at least they were moving. Despite alternating speeds and changing lanes several times, I didn’t see anything suspicious or consistent behind us. Finally, I slipped over into the fast lane and stayed there.
“I think we’re clear now. You okay?”
No response.
I glanced back, but Max was facing away from me—no way to get a read on her. “I gotta call my boss. Hang tight back there. We’ll figure this all out.”
The silence continued, and I checked again. This time, I saw her side shift beneath the blanket. She was still breathing, and for now, I guessed that was enough.
I dialed Lavorgna, who answered instantly. “Oh, thank Christ,” he said. “You all right? How’s the girl?”
“I’m fine, sir. She’s in shock, but otherwise intact.”
“What the bloody blazes happened out there?”
I described the scene from the time we exited baggage claim. “You can tell Franklin, this is no lone psycho.”
“The tattoos you saw. Sounds like something gang related. MS-13?”
“I thought of that, but these guys were . . . different. They looked foreign, somehow. And the symbols were more tribal than street, if that makes sense. What would a gang be doing trying to take down someone like Max, anyway?”
“Dunno,” Lavorgna said. “But they never should have known when and where you two would be arriving. She do anything stupid, like text it out to all her friends?”
“Nope, I was watching her. The only time she was out of my sight, there wasn’t any service.”
“Then there must be a leak somewhere. I’ll go back and squeeze the FBI to see what comes out. You just get the girl someplace safe.”
“The media know she was here?”
“We’ve got the news on,” Vince said. “They’re reporting the shooting, but no mention of her as the target. Same on social media: folks talking about a shoot-out at LAX, but nothing about Max.”
“Then I’m thinking my place.” After the events of six weeks ago, I’d upgraded my security system. Significantly.
“You sure? If this gang expected you two at the airport, they may have done their homework.”
I checked the sky, which was already starting to redden. “We won’t stay long. But I’m worried about her—she’s pretty out of it. Plus, I need supplies.”
“Okay. I’ll let Franklin and Drew know you’re safe, but play dumb about where you’re headed. When I know something, I’ll call.”
I continued watching the mirrors but didn’t see anything noteworthy. Still, rather than heading directly west, I took the 710 north, then jumped on Route 91 headed back toward the coast. I followed it all the way into Hermosa Beach, past Pacific Coast Highway, before pulling off onto a side street and reaching for my phone.
Finding your house broken into is a funny thing: it makes you paranoid. When the crazy lady got inside my place, she didn’t take anything. The opposite, actually. But after spending hours scrubbing all the bloody presents she’d left off my floors and walls, I’d sworn that was never going to happen again.
Most of the security components I needed were available right off the shelf. Sensors on the doors and windows would detect if they were opened and warn me—by flashing a strobe light inside the house and by text on my phone—of the intrusion. No messages so far; that was a good sign. Meanwhile, webcams watched the yard, exterior, and interior, and I could access them from anywhere.
Like, say, from my phone on a side street in Hermosa Beach.
My house is a modern tri-level, the three stories each slightly offset from one another and connected by two separate sets of stairs. The ground floor has all three primary entrances: the garage, a side door leading out to the yard, and the front door out to the street. The middle floor contains the living room and kitchen, but it also has a balcony you can access from sliding glass doors. The top floor is the bedroom, which has its own walk-out balcony.
The cameras don’t have the greatest field of vision—if the black SUV from LAX was parked across the alley from my garage, for example, I wouldn’t necessarily see it. But as I toggled between the cameras, everything looked clear.
Tucking the phone away, I tu
rned back toward Max, putting a hand on her shoulder. “You still with me back there?”
She didn’t say anything, but her braid bobbed as her head slowly nodded.
“Okay, just five minutes more.”
Tracking the coastline, I stole peeks at the water as we passed each successive block. Both the Strand—the concrete boardwalk running along the beach—and the sand beyond it were painted a Martian red by the final traces of crimson sunshine settling into the ocean. The water had grown a deep purple, but you could still see a line of clean breakers, crashing and rolling up the shore.
Good faces, maybe three feet.
I sighed over another day without surfing. At this rate, tomorrow was not looking too promising, either.
As we drew closer to the house, I began weaving up and down the cross streets, searching for the black SUV, or signs of anything else suspicious. My neighborhood in Manhattan Beach, known as the Sand Section, consists of pairs of paved streets and concrete paths leading up the hill from the Strand. The paved streets are barely wider than a car—they’re essentially alleys providing garage access for the houses on either side. The houses themselves—every one done in a different style—face out onto the concrete paths, which locals call “walking streets.” The streets and paths share numbers, with the paths confusingly designated as “streets,” and the streets named “places.” In this way, my front door opens onto 18th Street, while my garage opens onto 18th Place.
Mere steps from the ocean, land is at a premium. Lots are long and thin, yards can be measured in square inches, and the houses are packed together so tightly a bodybuilder would need to turn sideways to pass through the gaps between them. That said, people have found all kinds of ingenious ways of dealing with the cramped quarters. Most front “yards” on the walking streets are surrounded by some kind of low fence or wall and feature a sitting area, whether it’s a wooden picnic table or a fancy stone fire pit. People have also made creative use of the breezeways between houses: some are completely filled with surfboards, kayaks, and other outdoor equipment, while others have been fenced off to create narrow gardens, outdoor showers, or just about anything else you can imagine putting in a narrow hallway. There are nooks and crannies in which to hide almost everywhere in the Sand Section. It’s like a human rabbit warren.
