by Duncan James
***
Clint had had a lousy day. Let’s face it, a Jumbo full of Colombians is always trouble. More for customs than for immigration, he had to admit, but trouble enough. They always got them first. There were always long lists of ‘prohibiteds’ and ‘wanteds’, and it was up to him and his buddies on the other desks to spot them before they got through to customs. But he didn’t envy their job, either. The thought of having to body search some of the drifters he’d seen come through the airport made his flesh creep.
He was tired. This was always the worse shift, anyway. Every damned aircraft from every damned country in the world trying to get in before the night restrictions.
And too many new names and faces to look out for were added to the lists and the mug shots every shift. Mostly drug runners, he guessed, but Irish, too. And Arabs. Muslims all looked alike to him, same as the Chinese.
It might not be the best job in the States, but Clint did his best not to let anyone slip through.
He'd spotted McFosters, hadn't he? So he reckoned he'd earned his beer. That’s what he’d planned for tonight, and he was looking forward to it. A quiet beer or three on the way home, and then watching the ball game on video, if the damned thing had worked, which sometimes it didn't. He must get it fixed.
Clint headed for the staff parking lot, down long, dimly lit corridors, past the customs admin. offices, which were mostly empty at this time of night.
Somehow, he didn't hear the car, or see it, until it was too late. There was no one else about as he had stepped into the narrow road, just about where McFosters had gotten into the limo.
Apart from the car, three things struck him as his head smashed into the tarmac. The damned car had no lights on, it was going too fast, and he should have looked, anyway.
He was dead on arrival at the hospital.