“How about another Scotch?” Skull asked the statuesque flight attendant as he held up an empty highball glass.
“You know that’s part of our ambassador’s private stock, don’t you?” asked Cameron.
“Well, tell Sir Frumpy-Pants that I compliment him on his taste…in all things.” Skull eyed the woman in appreciation as she brought him his next glass of single malt.
She returned a meaningful smile and brushed his cheek with her blouse as she leaned over, as if by accident.
Skull folded the cocktail napkin that came with his drink, concealing the phone number written thereon, and pocketed it. He never allowed himself to be distracted by sex on a job, but between times, he permitted himself a few indulgences. Perhaps the next time he visited Britain…
“We’re almost there anyway,” said Cameron checking his watch. “We didn’t hit the expected headwind.”
“This private jet stuff is definitely the life,” Skull said, sipping. “I could get used to it.”
“I’d rather you didn’t. At least not when it involves His Majesty’s aircraft and the ambassador’s whisky.”
“What are you complaining about? You’re getting off easy. This is a bargain. Or would you rather I’d kicked around The Hague another day or two while I tried to get a flight?”
Cameron sat back in the plush leather seat. “Definitely not.” He turned to the flight attendant and pointed at Skull’s glass. “Would you bring me one of those, please? Neat.”
“That’s the spirit,” said Skull.
“I’ll blame it on you.”
When his drink arrived, he raised it in Skull’s direction. “Here’s to seeing your backside.”
“Sorry, bud, I don’t swing that way.”
“Pity. Makes things so much simpler.”
“…Now that some other minority group is the target of public suspicion, you mean?”
Cameron shrugged. “Every cloud, and all that.”
Skull nodded, and with a plummy faux accent said, “Silver lining? Oh yes, old chap. Good show.”
“You’re terrible at that, you know.”
“I’m a one-trick pony. Well, maybe two or three.” He winked at the flight attendant.
An hour later they made a smooth landing at a small private airport in Wyckoff, New Jersey, just across the Hudson River from New York City. They taxied toward a row of hangars, where a Security Service SUV waited for them.
“You sure this is going to work?” asked Skull. “Maybe I should retrieve my bag, just in case.”
“No,” said Cameron. “You’ll keep all your weapons stowed and safely out of reach. This isn’t just about you. If there is an incident at this stage it could implicate more than just you. Have no fear. All is arranged.”
“Great. You’re overconfident.”
“Relax. We have two important things working for us.”
“Such as?”
“Our diplomatic status.”
There came a knock on the skin of the plane. A few seconds later, the pilot opened the door and lowered the stairs. A large man in uniform climbed up and stuck his head inside, looking back along the small cabin.
“And the other?” Skull asked.
“A healthy dose of the almighty dollar,” said Cameron.
The customs official walked back between the aisles. “How many disembarking?”
“Only one,” Cameron answered, pointing at Skull. “The gentleman seated right there.”
“Passport,” the customs agent said holding his hand out.
Skull smiled. “Damn, I knew I was forgetting something. I remembered the blowup doll and the hair gel, but I had a feeling I was a little light. You ever get that feeling?”
The customs agent sighed heavily, looking at Cameron. “You know you’re going to get me fired, or worse.”
“We understand the risks you’re taking and are grateful for your cooperation.”
“A thousand dollars more grateful?”
Cameron nodded. “My pilot will take care of you.”
“Okay then,” the customs agent said, pulling out a small electronic device from a holster on his belt. “Assuming you check out, you can be on your way.”
“Check out?” asked Skull, worried about biometrics.
“That you’re not an Eden. I can’t risk bending that rule.”
“No worries.”
“We’ll see,” said the man, holding out the device. “Place your index finger on the pad.”
Skull felt a pinprick, and a moment later the light on the sensor flashed green.
“You’re all set,” the man answered pulling the device away. He produced an alcohol wipe and cleaned off his sensor before dropping it into a small bag at his belt.
“You get many visitors like me who forget their passports?” Skull asked.
The man’s smile vanished. “No. As long as you’re not an Eden terrorist lunatic, what do I care? All terrorists aren’t Edens, I guess, but all Edens are terrorists. Am I right?”
“If you say so,” said Skull.
“I do,” the man answered, looking at his watch. He turned to walk off the plane. As he descended the steps, he turned and stuck his head back inside, looking at Skull. “Oh yeah, welcome to the United States of America, Jack. Watch your fucking step.” Then he vanished.
“Nice people here,” Skull said. “Makes me a little homesick, to be honest with you.” He stood to go.
“How quickly can we be back up in the air?” Cameron asked the pilot.
The pilot looked out the door, and then back inside. “The fuel truck is headed this way now. Maybe a half hour. Twenty minutes if we rush it.”
“Rush it,” said Cameron. “I’d like to be out of here and over the Atlantic as quickly as possible.”
“What?” asked Skull. “I thought we’d go into the city together. Maybe have some dinner, take in a Broadway show. My treat.”
“Maybe another time,” Cameron answered.
“Okay, so we’ll stay in touch. Never know when I might need this level of support again.”
Cameron folded his hands in his lap. “Taking the piss out of me may be entertaining, but let me appeal to your sense of self-preservation and encourage you to get the hell off this plane. And if you ever show up on my doorstep again, I may not be so kind.”
“Fair enough,” said Skull, walking to the exit and climbed down the stairs. “Toodle-oo.”
A black luxury sedan waited with the trunk open. A man in a suit was loading Skull’s bags. “Where to, sir?”
“South,” Skull answered. “Find me a rental car place, but not at an airport. A busy one, where I’ll be forgotten.”
The driver nodded. “I know just the place. About an hour from here. Will that be all right, sir?”
“Perfectly.”
Skull was already mentally mapping out the drive in his head. It would take him at least twelve solid hours of driving to reach the area where Camp Pleasant was supposed to be located, a sparsely populated area of the Great Smoky Mountains National Park along the border between Tennessee and North Carolina.
Fortunately, he knew the region relatively well. After all, he’d grown up near there. Once more, he was going back home.
Thoughts of home reminded him of the last time he’d been in eastern Tennessee, four years ago. The last time he’d seen family. The last time he’d talked to his grandmother before she was tortured and murdered by Psychos to get leverage on him.
Skull lay back against the leather seat with his eyes closed, his fists clenched. A slow, familiar rage that never fully vanished began to simmer inside him.
I really should have killed the police chief.