Gibson had spent a restless last day in the house, waiting for his ride. Pacing the halls to avoid his father. To his surprise, it had been Cools who had collected him. He’d just completed a nonstop round-trip drive to Jenn’s Ohio airfield and was working on a nasty cold. The bags under his eyes were swollen and dark. Sidhu had been nowhere to be seen.
“Where’s your partner?” Gibson had asked.
“Busy, but I’ll let him know you missed him.”
“Just thought you two were a package deal.”
“Jesus, Vaughn.”
“Are you not allowed to curse in front of him either?”
“Was one beating not enough for you?”
They’d driven to the parking lot of a P. F. Chang’s off I-66. Maybe the beer in Swonger’s hand had soured things, but it had not been love at first sight for Cools. Swonger had been, well, Swonger about it. Cools had looked like he’d just found blood in his stool.
“This is your guy?” Cools had demanded. “What trailer park did you find this prize in?”
Swonger had thrown his half-full beer at Cools’s feet and provided graphic instructions on how to impregnate himself. It had almost come to blows, but Gibson had separated the two men.
“He better come through,” Cools had said, letting the implied threat hang between them.
As much as it would have surprised Gibson eighteen months ago, the one part of the plan about which he had zero doubts was Gavin Swonger. Gibson didn’t have many friends, but Swonger had mysteriously become one of them. In the pale light of Swonger’s cell phone, Gibson watched him hot-wire the van. How many people had a friend who would commit a felony for them, no questions asked?
Too late, Gibson spotted movement out of the corner of his eye. A roaming airport police officer appeared from between two parked vehicles. The steam of his breath swirled above the officer like smoke after a hard-fought battle. Gibson watched him veer in their direction.
“We’ve been made,” Gibson whispered. “Someone’s coming.”
Swonger glanced over the dashboard at the approaching officer, but his hands didn’t stop working. “I need another minute.”
Gibson sized up the situation and didn’t like how it looked—two guys sitting in a dark van in the middle of the night. Swonger wore a Tyner uniform but no credentials; he wouldn’t stand up to a semi-careful inspection. The fact that they didn’t have keys to the van wouldn’t help matters either.
“Pop the hood,” Gibson said and unzipped his coat far enough that his credentials were visible. He got out, ignored the security guard, and propped up the hood. Scanning the engine, he loosened a connection at the base of the fuse block.
“Try the lights,” he told Swonger.
Nothing happened, which was predictable since he’d disconnected the battery. Gibson cursed for the benefit of the officer, who had appeared at his side.
“Having some car trouble?” the officer asked in a friendly tone, but his eyes were narrow and alert. He had a round white face that the cold had mottled pink like uncooked bacon.
“Yeah, engine won’t turn over,” Gibson confirmed. He faced the officer so his credentials were in plain sight.
“Battery?” the officer asked, stepping around Gibson to get a look at Swonger. Swonger gave the officer an incongruous thumbs-up.
“That was my thought, but the clamps are all good,” Gibson said. “Cheap bastards need to service these vehicles regularly. It’s getting ridiculous.”
“Sounds like your boss knows my boss,” the officer said. “Have you checked the fuses?”
“I would if I could see what I was doing.”
The officer flicked on a long-barreled Maglite and shone it on the engine. “Let’s take a look.”
“You are a lifesaver.”
“To protect and illuminate,” the officer replied.
Gibson forced a chuckle. “I like that.”
Together they leaned over the engine block. Gibson hesitated, granting him a head start. He hoped the officer would spot the problem on his own. Playing the hero felt good, and generally people would avoid undermining that narrative. In this case by not asking questions that might reveal that he’d helped to steal a car. The officer’s hand went out and felt around the sparkplug caps.
“Anything?” Swonger asked, sticking his head out the window. “I’m ready to get goin’, already.”
“I think we’re going to have to call in for a jump,” Gibson said.
“Hold on,” the officer said. He held up the loose connector. “Think I found your problem.”
Gibson grinned at him. “Son of a gun.”
The officer reattached it, and Gibson told Swonger to give it another try. The van started right up. Gibson clapped the officer on the shoulder.
“By the power invested in me, I make you an honorary mechanic.”
“You’re a mechanic?” the officer asked.
“Don’t tell anyone about this. My review’s coming up.”
The officer looked amused at this tidbit, and Gibson could see him arranging the story in his mind to tell his buddies later. Gibson had a feeling he wouldn’t come out well in the officer’s version—some numbnuts aircraft mechanic too dumb to check his own fuse block. That’s all right, Gibson thought. The officer had earned it.
Gibson let the hood drop, and the two men shook hands. Swonger leaned out the window to offer his thanks, and the officer strolled off on his rounds.
“That was close,” Gibson whispered.
“You breaking into an airport, dog. What were you expecting? One of them little mints on your pillow?”
Gibson didn’t have a rebuttal to that. Instead, he had Swonger show him the toggle switch that he’d jury-rigged under the dashboard, bypassing the ignition switch. Swonger started the van and shut it off several times.
“Simple as that,” Swonger said. “Oh, you might need this.” He held up half of a car key—just the bow and shoulder. Swonger fitted it in the ignition switch. “In case some mook sticks his nose in.”
“Damn, that’s perfect. Thank you.” Gibson put out a hand.
“Ain’t nothing. Sure you don’t want me to stick around? Somebody need to watch your back.”
“No, if this thing goes sideways, grand theft will be the tip of the iceberg,” Gibson said.
“So who you helping this time?”
“What do you mean?”
Swonger tilted his head and arched his eyebrows. “Come on. We both know you ain’t the type to break into no airport. So stands to reason somebody laid a sob story on you. Hope it’s at least a girl this time and not some wrinkly-ass judge.”
“Actually, it is a she.”
“There it is!” Swonger whooped.
“But I wouldn’t go calling her a girl to her face.”
“Now we talking. Now we talking!” Swonger grinned mischievously. “Is she fine? She’s fine, isn’t she? Tell me she’s fine.”
Gibson put up a hand begging for Swonger to stop, but he was smiling. “It’s not like that.”
Swonger groaned and threw his arms up to the heavens. “Aw, you killing me. Why you got to be so damn selfless? Makes me want to pop you one. Answer me this: What’s in it for Gibson? You got to hit that, dog.”
“What’s in it for you, helping Lea?” Gibson retorted.