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“Sweet.”
“Mine’s older, but refurbished. Put in a new engine two years ago. I was off today. Hadn’t been for the fog, I would’ve taken her for a spin.”
“What’s your day job?”
He laughed. “Flying.” He named the freight carrier he flew for.
Brynn and Rye looked at each other. He raised his eyebrows as though asking her if Jake was their man. She was about to nod yes when Jake said, “I fly at zero zero thirty. Quick round trip to KC. Back by breakfast.”
Which meant that he wasn’t available tonight, and Brynn realized she was disappointed. She liked Jake Morton. She got a sense that Rye did, too.
He asked, “How did you know me? Have we crossed paths?”
“I was in Afghanistan same time you were.”
Rye tensed up, the change in him drastic enough for Brynn to feel. Jake kept talking. “I flew C-130s in and out of Bagram. Troops. Pallets of water. Jeeps. You name it. Didn’t fly into the worst of the shit like you did, but I heard all the stories. Never thought I’d get to meet you.”
Rye turned his head away and looked out the window, saying in a subdued voice, “Thanks for your help tonight.”
“No problem. I consider it an honor.”
The airport traffic was more congested than usual, but Jake inched his car toward the curb, then lurched into a space left by a departing minivan. Rye opened the back seat door on the passenger side. “Don’t bother getting out, Jake. We need to hustle.”
“Understood.” Seeing that Rye was about to remove the ball cap and give it back, he said, “Keep it, but I would like to shake your hand.” He stuck out his hand over the seat back.
Rye reached forward and they shook.
Jake said, “There’s not a flyer in the world who wouldn’t understand how you felt. Also not one in the world who wouldn’t buy you a beer. In a heartbeat.”
Rye held his gaze for several beats, then said brusquely, “Take care of yourself.”
Brynn scooted over and got out. Rye shut the car door, tapped the roof twice, and Jake drove away.
The encounter had started and ended with such abruptness, it seemed surreal, but Brynn knew that the parting exchange between the two men had been significant to each of them. Brynn wished she could ask Rye about it, but this wasn’t the time or place.
Police were everywhere.
Fortunately the officers were overwhelmed by the motor and pedestrian traffic and were industriously keeping it under some semblance of control. Trying not to draw attention to themselves, she and Rye joined the taxi line, shuffling forward a few feet at a time.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“For what?”
“You were eager to wash your hands of me.”
“Yeah, well, you’re stuck with me, too.”
“I could still rent a car and drive myself to Knoxville.”
“You could. And watch for Goliad and Timmy to show up in the rearview mirror. Or, because you’d be on the lookout for them, it would prob
ably be a pair of new players. You wouldn’t see them coming before it was too late.”
“The Hunts wouldn’t order my execution, Rye.”
He snickered. “For what’s inside your coat pocket? Get real, Brynn. Young women disappear all the time. You’d be publicly mourned by Lambert, but he would console himself with his influx of cash. Hunt would have his GX-42, and your life would be written off as a small cost of doing business.”
“That’s cynical.”
