John Locke - Vegas Moon

“Then get me a new gun to go with it.”

“That’s easy. But the bomb’s still a problem.”

“Why?”

“I can’t get anyone there in time that’s not local. And the local guys won’t detonate a bomb in their own airport.”

“Will they bring me one?”

“Yes.”

“Fine. Have them bring me the bomb, detonator, gun, and silencer.”

“You up to handling all that by yourself?”

“Unless your guy wants to shoot the bad guys.”

“I’d say you’re on your own.”

We work out the details for how the bomb guy will find me. It won’t be easy, but I’ve established myself among the security folk, and should be able to pull it off.

36.

I thought about having the bomb guy simply walk in the front door and hand me the duffel. But even though I’m trusted by the security staff, watchful civilians might take note of the exchange, and report me. If that happens, someone will surely check the duffel, and I’ll find myself crowded into the Marshall’s lounge with my least-favorite family.

So I’ve decided to have the bomb guy ride into the loading area with the getaway car driver. He’ll wait for me there, show me how to detonate the charge, and I’ll help him get through the security door and into the airport so he can catch a cab and be long gone before the action starts.

Lou and I confirm the timetable and synchronize our watches. Then I turn off my cell phone and remove the battery.

I’ve officially gone dark.

Now all I have to do is wait for the weapons to arrive. Then place the explosive. Then wait for the limo driver to show up with his sign. Then see if anyone approaches him. Then start shooting.

Are you beginning to understand the difference between a hit man and an assassin?

37.

I grab a burger, use the bathroom, check my watch. It’s nine p.m. So much going on right now.

My weapons are about to arrive, but my mind is back in Vegas, where Lucky and Gwen are entertaining Maddie. Which means Gwen and Maddie are naked, doing whatever it is they do to each other while Lucky watches. I’m not sure how I feel about it. I’m a little jealous, I think, and more than a little muffed.

I mean miffed.

I pause, thinking about it. I’m going to go out on a limb and say Gwen won’t participate. Not because I wore her out this afternoon, but because she and I have come a long way in the past day and a half. We’ve not only made a strong connection, we’ve also learned a great deal about each other.

And we’ve been intimate.

I might be wrong, and I know it’s crazy early in our relationship, but—don’t laugh—I believe she’s starting to fall in love with me.

I know.

And brace yourself: I’m developing strong feelings for her.

I know what you’re thinking: every time I sleep with a woman, I fall in love.

Well, you’re right. I have no defense, other than to tell you I only sleep with women who have a special effect on me. Yeah, I know. That sounds like horseshit, even to me.

I know what else you’re thinking: every time I fall in love, something goes wrong. Sooner, not later.

True. But maybe this time things will be different.

I think about how alike we are, and how fate has brought us together. I mean, think about it: I’ve got a chip implanted in my brain, Gwen has a device implanted in her breast. My life is literally in her titty. You can’t make this shit up.

I take a deep breath and decide that what’s happening right now in Vegas needs to stay in Vegas, because I’ve got much more important things to worry about.

If my theory about M is correct, he and his accomplices have landed, and are sitting at the same gate at this very minute. I look at the escalator that leads to the hallway that leads to the gate terminals. People going up one side, heading to outbound flights, others coming down to claim their bags. If I’m right, the four terrorists are on the other end of that hallway. If I’m right, I’m within a mile of them.

If I’m right.

A cold chill of adrenalin surges through my veins, just thinking about it.

They’re here.

I can feel them.

We’re so close.

God, I’d love to snuff this bastard for you guys!

I can’t go into details, but M is bad news. And he’s got some very bad plans for you and your loved ones.

You’ve done nothing to him.

Nothing.

But he wants to hurt you anyway. Wants to maim and kill your children.

We call him M, but as far as I’m concerned, it stands for motherfucker. And while I can’t make you any promises, I’m going to do my best to send this bastard straight to hell tonight, and get him off your list of things to worry about.

38.

Nine-thirty.

My getaway car should be pulling up any second. But I don’t see it.

…Nine-forty, still no car.

I can’t just stand around here forever. Soon M’s limo driver will walk into baggage claim with his sign. He’ll be located one floor up, near the carousel I’m watching from below.

It’s busy out here. People are working hard all around me. Baggage cars come and go, hooked together, three, four, five at a time, like little trains. They deliver the bags that come from all over the world to people standing impatiently right above us. It’s astounding, really, when you think about it. People bitch and moan about losing this bag or that, but when you’re out here among these hard-working men and women, you realize the enormity of what they’re trying to accomplish. Sure they make the occasional mistake. Who doesn’t? But these people are amazing! If they weren’t on a strict time-line, they’d have a 100% delivery rate. As it is, they’re within shouting distance of it. What strikes me is the bags never stop moving! It’s a nice, clear night, but I know these guys work just as hard when it’s cold, raining, or snowing.

Wait. Strike that. It doesn’t snow in San Francisco. But it does get cold. Someone once said, “The coldest winter I ever spent was one summer in San Francisco!” It is, in fact, the coldest major city in America during the summer months. As for baggage people in other parts of the country who work through snow and ice and rotten weather?

I love ’em.

But I digress.

I know I’m rambling, and it’s not because I’m nervous. It’s just that I’m standing here watching hundreds of bags being delivered every minute, while my people—who are supposed to be the best in the world—can’t bring me a simple bomb, gun, silencer, and some bullets.

I just want my stuff.

So I can do my job.

Is that too much to ask?

Nine-fifty. No car, no duffel.

I don’t have to use a silencer. I can shoot the bad guys perfectly well with the gun in my shoulder harness.

But it’ll make a lot of noise, and everyone will see me. So yeah, a silencer would be great. And a small, loud bomb to detonate, away from the action, so everyone will look that way when it’s time for me to haul ass. Speaking of things that would be great, let’s don’t underestimate the value of a getaway car. I’d love to kill the bad guys and get away without being shot or killed.

All these things would be great to have.

But they’re not necessary.

And they’re not necessary because killing M is worth dying for. It is, in fact, a good exchange, because I can only kill a few dozen terrorists in my life, while he can kill thousands of Americans.

I wonder briefly if Lou even bothered to get me a car. I don’t want to whine, or dwell too much on what it’s like working every day with people I don’t trust. I mean, you might have it ten times worse than me at your job. When I tell you my boss gave me a new face against my wishes, you might say, “You think that’s bad?”—and you might have a worse story. Lou, the guy I rely on to help me take down the bad guys—tried to kill me and steal all my money a few months ago. And might be trying to kill me tonight, by denying me a getaway car. But you might have a coworker that makes Lou look like a choirboy.

I don’t like to make assumptions about Darwin and Lou. But Darwin’s plan would almost certainly have gotten me killed tonight. Is that what he intended?

No way to know. Darwin’s a company guy, ruthless as a slumlord who knows about the gold filling in your tooth. But far as I know, he’s never worked in the field. Maybe he’s just a bad planner.

I glance at my watch for the fifth time in ten minutes.

It’s time.

I have to go upstairs, take a position from which to survey the scene.

I’ve got a plan.

I’ll make it work.

I start walking toward the security door. While I walk, I scan the endless concrete around me…

…And see a black sedan entering the far gate.

39.

The sedan pulls up and I meet the driver and have him back into the space I’ve reserved. The folks in baggage are comfortable with me, and when I tell them I’m escorting a dignitary out the back they’re more excited than suspicious. The local guy who brought me the bomb turns out to be a kid of twenty-two, who looks like he’s about to faint.

“Relax, son,” I say. “I’ll get you out of here.”

“Yes sir.”

I pause for a moment. I have to wonder if maybe the reason he’s so nervous is because he’s got the real detonator in his pocket, and plans to blow me up when he walks out the front door. I shake my head, trying to rid myself of the paranoia.

Still…

I lean him and the driver up against the car and pat them down like my life depends on it. Then I apologize, and let the driver get back in his car. The kid and I climb in the back seat. I tell him to show me his bomb, and explain how it works. It’s dark, so I flip on my pen light and train it on the floor. There’s just enough glow to see what he’s holding. As I instructed, he’s placed the bomb in a soft drink cup that has a plastic lid on it, and a straw sticking out. The straw holds the antenna for the receiver. He hands me the detonator, which is the size of a garage door opener, and has two buttons.

“What’s the second button for?”

“Press either one. They both work.”

“Why have two?”

He shrugs. “It’s my garage door opener. It came that way.”

Now I’m starting to get a little nervous.

“What’s the range for detonating it?”

“Sixty yards.”

“The trash can is metal.”

“So?”

“Want to change your range estimate?”

“Nope.”

“That’s a pretty bold statement,” I say, “for someone who hasn’t seen the trash can yet. What are you basing the distance on?”

“Educated guess.”

“A guess,” I repeat.

“Yes sir.”

“And have you tested the range before?”

“Of course.”

“In a metal trash can?”

“No.”

“So you don’t even know if it will detonate.”

“Oh, it’ll detonate, all right!” he says, enthusiastically.

I may have doubted the kid at first. But now I believe him. I like a guy who loves his work.

“And the bomb is safe?” I say.

“Define safe.”

“Big bang, no injuries.”

“Where’s the opening on the can?”

“There’s a round hole on the top, maybe a foot in diameter.”

“When you detonate it, make sure no one’s leaning over the top.”

“Because?”

“The explosion’s going to shoot up about ten feet.”

“But nothing through the sides?”

“No. It’s a noise bomb. And smoke. I assumed you wanted smoke.”

“Smoke is good.”

“If there’s paper in the trash can, it’ll ignite.”