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As to what Bruce is going to say to the cops, at the moment it isn’t Liam’s problem.
Getting to his meeting place is.
He speeds up the Audi.
Nearly an hour later, bumping down a potholed and cracked single-lane country road, Liam comes to a waypoint: a rusting metal gate, spanning a dirt and gravel road.
He parks the car, gets out, and goes to the gate. It’s fastened to a rusty, wide metal pipe stuck into the ground, and a Yale combination lock holds a thick chain around the post.
He dials the combination—15, 1, 15—and the lock snaps free. He opens the gate, keeping a sharp eye on the surroundings, drives the Audi in several yards, stops, and closes and locks the gate behind him.
The dirt road is rough and bumpy, and he’s thinking about what might be waiting for him up ahead. Something highly classified, black budget, and deeply guarded.
The trees and brush thin out. He sees buildings coming into view. He gets his ID ready from his wallet, curious as to how deep the security is going to be in this rural part of Virginia.
The dirt road comes to an end against an open access road.
He’s expecting triple-fencing with razor-wire curling on top, armed guards and warning signs saying photography and trespassing are forbidden, and that use of deadly force is authorized.
But the way ahead of him is empty.
There’s a long runway.
Three hangars clustered at one end of the runway, and a larger one, set off at a distance from the others.
Not even a control tower.
Five civilian planes—Cessnas, Beechcrafts, Pipers—are parked on grass aprons, their wings tied down to the ground. Two gas pumps sit on a concrete island about twenty feet away.
Liam turns right, drives down the narrow road running parallel to the runway, and a small building comes into view, looking like a small one-story Cape Cod cottage with black shingled roof and a door at the center.
A Harley-Davidson motorcycle is parked on the grass.
He parks the Audi next to the motorcycle, gets out, and walks into the small building. There’s a metal desk, two mismatched chairs, another motorcycle in pieces on a tarp on the cement floor, and atall woman in jeans and a black tank top working a wrench. She has purple hair and both arms are heavily inked with tattoos.
She looks at Liam. “If you’re looking for storage for your private aircraft, sorry, we’re full.”
She stands, wipes her hands on a white greasy rag.
Liam says, “I’m supposed to meet someone here, at nine.” He looks at the round clock with black hands next to a tool calendar from Dewalt. It’s 8:55 a.m.
She smiles. “Well, best as I know, I’m the only one here. A couple of folks park their Lear jets in the other hangars, and I’m here just to make sure nobody steals the joint. Sorry.”
Liam says, “Not a problem.”
He steps outside in the bright morning sunlight.
Now what?
He checks his watch.
One minute to nine.
What to do when time runs out?
He hears a whisper of a sound and looks off to the south.
A jet is approaching.
