At the mention of Lea’s name, Swonger stopped and turned somber. “You right. You right. My bad.” He stared out the window at the runways. “But maybe, after this is over, you find something for you?”
Gibson didn’t know how to explain that there wasn’t going to be an afterward for him. He realized he’d been saying good-bye to the people and places that made up his life. Casting them off before whatever came next. Swonger was another piece of that old life. The last piece, as fate would have it. This time tomorrow, he’d either be dead or in custody. He smiled at his friend.
Swonger narrowed his eyes. “Dog . . . you about to burst into song or some shit? Why you giving me the Disney-princess eyes?”
Gibson chuckled. “Something like that,” he said and handed Swonger an envelope with five thousand dollars inside.
Swonger tried to give it back. “What I tell you? Don’t want your money.”
“It isn’t my money. And believe me, she can spare it. Take it.”
Swonger relented and ran his thumb through the stack of bills approvingly. “Was going to hit the casino up in DC anyway. Now it be like playing with house money. Gonna play me some blackjack tonight, boy.”
“There’s a casino in DC?”
“MGM National Harbor. Dog, you really went away.”
And would again once this was over. One way or another.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
The van idled at the checkpoint, waiting to be cleared through from land-side to air-side. Gibson knew one of the officers on duty. They said hello, and Gibson handed him his badge. The officer disappeared into the security booth to run the plates and Gibson’s credentials. Gibson counted at least four security cameras. It made him jittery knowing this was the point of no return, but he chatted amiably with the officer. He was pulling it off fine until Duke piped up.
“Tell him how the airport looks like a wave. I bet he’s a poetry lover too.”
Gibson’s head snapped around before he could stop himself. He glared at his father and mouthed, “Shut up.” When he turned back, the officer had a troubled look on his face.
“You all right, pal?”
Gibson did his best to play it off, improvising a story about headaches and neck pain. The officer didn’t seem overly sympathetic. Gibson tried to change the subject, get the conversation rolling again, but the officer stepped back and cut him off.
“Sir, step out of the vehicle.”
Gibson asked what the problem was, but the officer only repeated his command, so he did as he was told. Duke looked pleased with himself. The officer kept a watchful eye on him until the other officer came back from the booth with Gibson’s badge. He gave his partner a questioning look.
“What’s going on?”
The officers conferred in whispers while Gibson wondered how far he’d get if he ran. He kicked himself for falling for Duke’s provocation. He’d made progress learning to block out Duke and Bear, but when it counted, he’d failed. Jenn had been right. It was over before it even began, and it was all his fault. He’d blown it.
“All right, Gibson. You’re good to go,” the first officer said, handing him back his badge.
Gibson looked at it in surprise. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah, he’s new like you. Good guy. Little gung ho is all.”
Gibson got back in the van and watched the gate open. The officer told him to take care of his neck and slapped the side of the van. Not exactly how he’d drawn it up, but he was through to the air-side. He wouldn’t get that lucky twice. “Keep it together,” he repeated aloud over and over like a mantra.
The commercial wing of Dulles was composed of three parallel terminals. When Gibson had been a kid, mobile lounges—lumbering, seventy-ton, buslike vehicles—had shuttled passengers back and forth between the main concourse and the outer terminals. It was a slow, inefficient system, and in 2010, Dulles had finally replaced the mobile lounges with an underground rail system, but Gibson still felt nostalgic for the old buses. It had been exhilarating to be out on the tarmac among the behemoths as they started, then stopped, showing deference for the gleaming 747s. Almost like being on safari among dinosaurs—at least to a little boy.
Gibson felt a trace of that now as he steered the van along Alpha Road, a utility corridor that fronted the main concourse. Everything was scaled to enormous proportions; his van was dwarfed by the aircraft and larger service vehicles. Jenn had reviewed the protocols and procedures for driving on this part of the airport, but Gibson worried he’d make a mistake and a late-arriving Airbus would bulldoze him into the tarmac. He took it slow and made nervous full stops like a kid taking his first driver’s test.
“You remember when we flew out of here?” he asked Duke.
“If you remember, I remember.”
“You knew every aircraft.”
“I made all of that up,” Duke said.
“No, you didn’t.”
“Call it eighty-twenty, then.” Duke winked at him, and for a moment Gibson saw his father. His real father, not the angry ghoul that his subconscious had birthed. Duke Vaughn wouldn’t have wanted any of this for his son. He hadn’t been a vengeful or spiteful man. It would sadden him to know Gibson had fallen so far. Gibson thought that was an important idea and one worth holding on to.
“You’re not the man I thought you’d be,” Duke said.
“I know. Me neither.”
His father looked taken aback at how easily Gibson had acquiesced. “What’s wrong with you?”
“I don’t want to fight with you anymore,” Gibson said.
“That’s too bad, because I’m not done fighting with you.”
“I know,” Gibson said and turned off Alpha Road. The van disappeared between the satellite buildings that provided support services for the terminals and airlines. He followed the signs for NW Service Road. To his right, the van passed a series of freight hangars, and even at this late hour they were a beehive of activity. Commercial flights stopped before midnight, but cargo flights came and went around the clock. Overnight shipping meant exactly that. Out the driver’s side window, the runways stretched out of sight. He checked the time. Jenn should be on the ground by now. He accelerated as much as he dared.
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?”