Final Winter

The descent continued, the ground getting closer and closer, and Brian couldn’t help himself, he closed his eyes for a moment as the wheels hit the runway. In control. The past several months, being at the beck and call of Adrianna and her bosses, that sure didn’t meet the definition of being in control, now, did it?

After long minutes of wading through the people exiting the aircraft, each juggling a piece of carry-on luggage, and passing the poor flight crew with their robotic ‘’Bye now’ — and did they do that because some marketing whiz a thousand miles away thought such greetings would mean a point five percent increase in return flyers? — he joined Adrianna and the not-so-good doctor outside the jetway. Adrianna nodded to him and Vincent just looked miserable. He was holding a silver metal case in one hand. Brian went up to him, grasped the doctor’s left wrist for a moment, and said, ‘The joys of technology, doc, am I right?’

Victor looked surprised. ‘What? What do you mean?’

Hand still on the doctor’s wrist, Brian tugged at a thin steel cable running from the handle of the case to a handcuff hidden under the shirt sleeve. Brian said, ‘Back in the bad old days, there was a thick chain running to the case. Now it’s just a thin steel cable. Harder to spot. But still, it’s easy enough to get the case off your wrist.’

‘How’s that?’

Brian couldn’t help himself. ‘Just use an axe. That’s all.’

Adrianna said, ‘Brian…’

Vincent said, ‘But I was told the cable was resistant to all cutting devices.’

Brian grinned. ‘Who said anything about cutting the cable? All it’d take to get the case away is to cut off your hand.’

Adrianna came around, grabbed his upper arm. ‘Come along. No time for games, Brian.’

Despite it all, he enjoyed her touch. ‘You got it, Adrianna. No time for games.’

~ * ~

They exited the terminal, got into a cab, and the cabbie snorted when he heard the address from Adrianna. ‘Man, what a waste of time…’

Brian was sitting in the front, letting Adrianna try to cheer up the doctor. ‘Don’t worry, pal. We’ll give you a big tip, just the same.’

‘You will?’

‘Sure,’ Brian said. ‘Unlimited expense account. For any-thing and everything we want. Even if it’s for a cab drive a couple hundred yards away.’

The cabbie got them out into the steady flow of airport traffic. ‘Must be nice, throwing money around like that. You guys must have one hell of a job.’

Brian said, ‘Pal, you have no idea.’

~ * ~

Alexander Bocks stood alone in his office, looking out the window at the collection of hangars and outbuildings that belonged to him at the Memphis International Airport. Oh, lawyers and bankers and accountants would put up a hell of an argument, saying that these structures did not belong to him, they belonged to AirBox and a bunch of subsidiaries and stockholders and this and that, and Bocks would nod at all the right places and then say, fuck you, they’re mine. They weren’t there before I started, and they are there now, and they belong to me.

He raised a hand, touched the window, felt the vibrations that came from the jet engines and ground equipment and luggage handlers. He pressed his hand tighter against the glass, as if trying to remember well what the sensation was like, what it was like to stand here and feel that thrumming sensation against your skin, that sensation that meant decades’ worth of work and dreams were finally being fulfilled, that he had something he could call his own, something that in a very few hours would—

The door opened. Bocks dropped his hand as if he was a twelve-year-old boy caught in a bathroom by his mom, a copy of her Cosmo magazine in his hands. He turned and Elizabeth stood there, Elizabeth Bouchard, a retired warrant officer from the Air Force, who had taken early retirement to come join him at this crazy venture, to go after the big boys at UPS and FedEx, and who was now a very wealthy woman, stock options and all, but still preferred to come to work every day for the general.

He said, ‘I really wanted some quiet time, Liz.’

‘I know, sir, but you have a visitor.’

Bocks went over to his desk, to the clear piece of square Lucite that stood up six inches and which held his day’s schedule, like the menu of some restaurant or something. He glanced down, then looked up and said, ‘First appointment isn’t for an hour. Who is it?’

‘An Adrianna Scott. With two associates.’

‘Tell her to go away.’

Liz came forward, her fiftyish body still looking uncomfortable in civilian clothes, like she should be wearing BDUs instead of a ridiculous pants suit from Talbots, and she passed over a business card. He looked down, saw the woman’s name and the very familiar emblem and main phone number of the Central Intelligence Agency.

Bocks handed the card back to her. ‘Sorry, I don’t go all weak in the knees anymore when unannounced visitors from Langley turn up. Tell her to make an appointment. Preferably for next week.’

Liz held the card and said, ‘She asked me to say something to you.’

‘And what’s that?’