Final Winter

Monty came up to him, held out his hand, which Brian shook.

‘What was that about?’ Brian asked.

‘Randy Tuthill. The machinist guy.’

‘Yeah?’

‘His son was the pilot of the KC-135 that collided with the Kentucky AirBox flight.’

Brian nodded. ‘That sucks.’

‘Yeah.’

Brian took in the ordered chaos of the Operations Center, the terminal displays, the phones and the host of people who worked for AirBox, who had done their best to manage a disaster that would have made 9/11 look like a parking-lot fender-bender if it had succeeded, and he just closed his eyes. Couldn’t take it anymore.

‘Good job, Brian. A real good job.’

‘No, not really. It was a fuck-up. A while ago I knew something was hinky with Adrianna. I should have done more, done better, done it sooner. That’s all.’

Monty slapped him on the back of his neck. ‘Brian, you fret too much. You did all right. For a cop.’

Brian said, ‘I’m supposed to take that as a compliment?’

‘Take it any way you like it.’

He rubbed at the back of his neck. ‘Somehow, I don’t think I’m gonna be a cop this time next week.’

Monty said, ‘Don’t worry. Anything happens, I’ll set you up somehow. You’ve got balls and brains — and a couple of gunshot bruises to the chest. A hell of a combination.’

‘Thanks.’

Monty yawned and said, ‘Speaking of Adrianna, I wonder where that little minx is right now.’

‘Out there, I’m sure.’

‘Yeah…man, if she ever gets caught, I just want ten minutes with her. Ten minutes.’

‘What do you mean, if?’

Monty laughed. ‘Man, that was one smart bitch. You telling me she didn’t have a bag of plans, ready to get her ass out of here?’

Brian said, ‘Maybe so. But she’s still going to get caught.’

‘Hell of a large country. Hell of a large world, Brian.’

Brian shook his head. ‘She’s going to get caught. Guaranteed. But one thing.’

‘What’s that?’

‘You don’t get first crack at her. I do.’

Monty shrugged. ‘Considering the bitch shot you and all, yeah, I’ll give you that.’

‘Good,’ Brian said. ‘Glad to win one once in a while.’

~ * ~

With less than an hour to go to the Canadian border, Adrianna Scott felt a burning sense of frustration at the news coming from her radio, for it seemed like things weren’t going her way, not at all. As she tried to find a different channel to listen to, there was a roaring noise that made her head snap back and—

A black Kiowa helicopter, landing in the road in front of her, men coming out and—

BANG!

Somehow, they had something that shattered the windshield and side windows and—

The engine died. She scrambled around, trying to get out, trying to move and—

Black-jumpsuited men were on her, spraying something in her face, something that confused her and made her eyes bum, and now she was on the side of the road, coughing and hacking.

One of the men removed his face mask, knelt down beside her.

‘Adrianna Scott, in the name of the United States of America, I place you under arrest.’

‘But…but…this is a mistake. Look at my driver’s license. My name is Dolores Benjamin. There’s been a mistake!’

Another man came into view, dropped one of her bags on the ground. He poked around in the bag, took out a little pin with a thick metal head on one end.

She instantly recognized it. A Mark 10 tracking device. She looked back at her bag, and—

Now she remembered.

Back at the hotel room, with Brian. When she went into the bathroom the bag had been on the bed.

When she had come out of the bathroom the bag had been on the floor.

Brian had bugged her. The bastard.

The man said, ‘Adrianna Scott, you have the right to—’

‘The name isn’t Adrianna Scott!’ she spat at him. ‘My name is Aliyah Fulenz.’

The man grinned at her as she was helped up and shackles were placed about her ankles and handcuffs on her wrists.

‘Adrianna, Dolores, Aliyah, I don’t give a shit — all I know is that your ass now belongs to us.’

And as she was brought to her feet, the man leaned in and said, ‘You’re ours, princess.’

CHAPTER FORTY

The room had no air-conditioning, and it was stifling hot. Brian Doyle walked in and there she was, sitting in front of him, her hands cuffed to a metal ring centered in the middle of a table. She had on an orange jumpsuit, her hair had been cut short, and her skin was rough. No make-up or beauty products allowed, he thought, as he pulled up a chair and sat across from her.

‘Well,’ he said. ‘Was I that lousy in bed that you had to shoot me afterwards?’

She looked tired, sullen. ‘How long have you been thinking of that little joke?’

‘A while,’ Brian admitted. ‘Thought you’d smile, at least.’

‘You thought wrong.’

‘I guess I did. About a lot of things.’

She moved her hands, the chain clanking some. ‘Why are you here?’

‘To see you, face to face. To ask you why. The usual.’

‘Hah. The usual.’ She leaned forward and said, ‘They showed us a movie the other night. A rare treat, I am told. So what kind of movie did they show us? Ben-Hur. Can you imagine that, with the population they have here, that they would show such a movie?’

‘I can imagine almost anything. But to get back to my original—’