Cold Harbor (The Gibson Vaughn Series Book 3)

by Matthew Fitzsimmons

  Jenn left shortly after dawn. She had a long drive to an airfield in Ohio, where she’d rented a small two-seat Cessna. Gibson rose before her and made breakfast, the only meal he’d ever mastered. Jenn looked it over appreciatively but wolfed down only a slice of bacon. She said she was too amped up to eat. At the door, she hugged him tightly. It reminded him of when they’d said good-bye at the motel in Atlanta. Even though he’d be seeing her in a matter of hours, it still felt forbidding and final.

  She said, “I’ll see you tonight.”

  “11:34 p.m.”

  “Don’t keep me waiting.”

  “Sir, yes, sir,” Gibson said with a grin, trying to force himself into a better mood.

  “Smart-ass.”

  Cools waited for Jenn in the driveway. The first time Gibson had seen him without his partner. Cools helped Jenn load her gear into the trunk. She paused before getting into the passenger seat and gave Gibson an almost imperceptible nod. He returned it and watched them back out of the driveway. When they were out of sight, Gibson shut the door and finished his own preparations.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  It was a beautiful, clear winter night at Dulles, and Gibson hated it. The light of the waning moon was enough to pick out details in the tree line on the far side of the airport. The forecast had called for flurries, but the temperature hovered stubbornly just above freezing, and Doppler weather radar showed all precipitation missing the airport to the north. Snow didn’t seem too much to ask. A little fog. A swarm of locusts. Anything to provide a little camouflage, but no, the airport was lit up like a ballpark before a night game.

  Swonger knelt to tie his boots for the second time in one hundred yards. Gibson shot him a glance.

  “And yet you can hot-wire a car.”

  “One of my laces broke, dog.” Swonger held up the ends for Gibson to see. “They uneven as shit now.”

  Gibson looked away and sighed. No battle plan survived contact with the enemy—he didn’t know who had said that, but they probably hadn’t had Swonger’s shoelaces in mind. Ahead, the iconic main terminal rose up like a cresting wave. If tonight it finally broke, he and Swonger would be washed away.

  “You’re a goddamn poet,” Duke said.

  Since Jenn left this morning, Duke had been his constant companion, lurking silently in the periphery of Gibson’s vision. He reminded himself that Duke wasn’t real and that he could choose to control it. Easier said than done. The problem with insanity was how incredibly sane it felt. He bit his tongue and said nothing to the smirking ghost of his father.

  When commercial passengers approached Dulles, they paid attention only to the main terminal. But to either side stood cargo hangars and the fixed-base operators that supported general aviation. Tyner Aviation was on the left. Jenn would arrive at an FBO on the right side, as far from Tyner as possible. The plan required Gibson to drive around the airport, between the commercial terminals, and pick Jenn up. That was where Swonger came in.

  Swonger finished his shoelace surgery, and they strolled across the Tyner Aviation parking lot. Gibson had a spare Tyner Aviation uniform, and from a distance it almost looked like it fit Swonger. They talked loudly and about nothing. Swonger’s first rule of boosting cars: act like you owned it.

  “Ain’t nobody gonna stop you stealing your own car,” Swonger said.

  They stopped at a panel van with a Tyner Aviation logo along the side. Swonger went to work on the lock, chatting away the entire time. Gibson waited on the passenger side and kept a lookout. When the lock didn’t pop right open, Gibson slapped the window to get Swonger’s attention.

  “I’m freezing out here,” he said.

  “Fresh air. Good for you.”

  “That’s jet fumes, Swonger.”

  The lock popped open at last.

  “Losing your touch?” Gibson asked.

  “I missed you, dog. You my blue sky on a cloudy day.”

  “Any time now.”

  “These boys need to service their shit,” Swonger groused. “That lock stiffer than my daddy’s knees.”

  Inside the van, Swonger set about hot-wiring the ignition by the light of his cell phone. Gibson checked the time: a few minutes before eleven. The last of the overnight international flights to Europe would be taxiing out to the runways. Assuming she was on schedule, Jenn’s Cessna would land in thirty-five minutes. According to Cold Harbor’s flight plan, their C-130 had a two a.m. scheduled departure. That would leave two hours and change to secure Cold Harbor’s enormous cargo aircraft, rescue George, and get the hell out of Dodge.

  Gibson had spent a restless last day in the house, waiting for his ride. Pacing the halls to avoid his father. To his surprise, it had been Cools who had collected him. He’d just completed a nonstop round-trip drive to Jenn’s Ohio airfield and was working on a nasty cold. The bags under his eyes were swollen and dark. Sidhu had been nowhere to be seen.

  “Where’s your partner?” Gibson had asked.

  “Busy, but I’ll let him know you missed him.”

  “Just thought you two were a package deal.”

  “Jesus, Vaughn.”

  “Are you not allowed to curse in front of him either?”

  “Was one beating not enough for you?”

  They’d driven to the parking lot of a P. F. Chang’s off I-66. Maybe the beer in Swonger’s hand had soured things, but it had not been love at first sight for Cools. Swonger had been, well, Swonger about it. Cools had looked like he’d just found blood in his stool.

  “This is your guy?” Cools had demanded. “What trailer park did you find this prize in?”

  Swonger had thrown his half-full beer at Cools’s feet and provided graphic instructions on how to impregnate himself. It had almost come to blows, but Gibson had separated the two men.

  “He better come through,” Cools had said, letting the implied threat hang between them.

  As much as it would have surprised Gibson eighteen months ago, the one part of the plan about which he had zero doubts was Gavin Swonger. Gibson didn’t have many friends, but Swonger had mysteriously become one of them. In the pale light of Swonger’s cell phone, Gibson watched him hot-wire the van. How many people had a friend who would commit a felony for them, no questions asked?

  Too late, Gibson spotted movement out of the corner of his eye. A roaming airport police officer appeared from between two parked vehicles. The steam of his breath swirled above the officer like smoke after a hard-fought battle. Gibson watched him veer in their direction.

  “We’ve been made,” Gibson whispered. “Someone’s coming.”

  Swonger glanced over the dashboard at the approaching officer, but his hands didn’t stop working. “I need another minute.”

  Gibson sized up the situation and didn’t like how it looked—two guys sitting in a dark van in the middle of the night. Swonger wore a Tyner uniform but no credentials; he wouldn’t stand up to a semi-careful inspection. The fact that they didn’t have keys to the van wouldn’t help matters either.

  “Pop the hood,” Gibson said and unzipped his coat far enough that his credentials were visible. He got out, ignored the security guard, and propped up the hood. Scanning the engine, he loosened a connection at the base of the fuse block.

  “Try the lights,” he told Swonger.

  Nothing happened, which was predictable since he’d disconnected the battery. Gibson cursed for the benefit of the officer, who had appeared at his side.

  “Having some car trouble?” the officer asked in a friendly tone, but his eyes were narrow and alert. He had a round white face that the cold had mottled pink like uncooked bacon.

  “Yeah, engine won’t turn over,” Gibson confirmed. He faced the officer so his credentials were in plain sight.

  “Battery?” the officer asked, stepping around Gibson to get a look at Swonger. Swonger gave the officer an incongruous thumbs-up.

  “That was my thought, but the clamps are all good,” Gibson said. “Cheap bastards need to service
these vehicles regularly. It’s getting ridiculous.”

  “Sounds like your boss knows my boss,” the officer said. “Have you checked the fuses?”

  “I would if I could see what I was doing.”

  The officer flicked on a long-barreled Maglite and shone it on the engine. “Let’s take a look.”

  “You are a lifesaver.”

  “To protect and illuminate,” the officer replied.

  Gibson forced a chuckle. “I like that.”

  Together they leaned over the engine block. Gibson hesitated, granting him a head start. He hoped the officer would spot the problem on his own. Playing the hero felt good, and generally people would avoid undermining that narrative. In this case by not asking questions that might reveal that he’d helped to steal a car. The officer’s hand went out and felt around the sparkplug caps.

  “Anything?” Swonger asked, sticking his head out the window. “I’m ready to get goin’, already.”

  “I think we’re going to have to call in for a jump,” Gibson said.

  “Hold on,” the officer said. He held up the loose connector. “Think I found your problem.”

  Gibson grinned at him. “Son of a gun.”

  The officer reattached it, and Gibson told Swonger to give it another try. The van started right up. Gibson clapped the officer on the shoulder.

  “By the power invested in me, I make you an honorary mechanic.”

  “You’re a mechanic?” the officer asked.

  “Don’t tell anyone about this. My review’s coming up.”

  The officer looked amused at this tidbit, and Gibson could see him arranging the story in his mind to tell his buddies later. Gibson had a feeling he wouldn’t come out well in the officer’s version—some numbnuts aircraft mechanic too dumb to check his own fuse block. That’s all right, Gibson thought. The officer had earned it.

  Gibson let the hood drop, and the two men shook hands. Swonger leaned out the window to offer his thanks, and the officer strolled off on his rounds.

  “That was close,” Gibson whispered.

  “You breaking into an airport, dog. What were you expecting? One of them little mints on your pillow?”

  Gibson didn’t have a rebuttal to that. Instead, he had Swonger show him the toggle switch that he’d jury-rigged under the dashboard, bypassing the ignition switch. Swonger started the van and shut it off several times.

  “Simple as that,” Swonger said. “Oh, you might need this.” He held up half of a car key—just the bow and shoulder. Swonger fitted it in the ignition switch. “In case some mook sticks his nose in.”

  “Damn, that’s perfect. Thank you.” Gibson put out a hand.

  “Ain’t nothing. Sure you don’t want me to stick around? Somebody need to watch your back.”

  “No, if this thing goes sideways, grand theft will be the tip of the iceberg,” Gibson said.

  “So who you helping this time?”

  “What do you mean?”

  Swonger tilted his head and arched his eyebrows. “Come on. We both know you ain’t the type to break into no airport. So stands to reason somebody laid a sob story on you. Hope it’s at least a girl this time and not some wrinkly-ass judge.”

  “Actually, it is a she.”

  “There it is!” Swonger whooped.

  “But I wouldn’t go calling her a girl to her face.”

  “Now we talking. Now we talking!” Swonger grinned mischievously. “Is she fine? She’s fine, isn’t she? Tell me she’s fine.”

  Gibson put up a hand begging for Swonger to stop, but he was smiling. “It’s not like that.”

  Swonger groaned and threw his arms up to the heavens. “Aw, you killing me. Why you got to be so damn selfless? Makes me want to pop you one. Answer me this: What’s in it for Gibson? You got to hit that, dog.”

  “What’s in it for you, helping Lea?” Gibson retorted.

  At the mention of Lea’s name, Swonger stopped and turned somber. “You right. You right. My bad.” He stared out the window at the runways. “But maybe, after this is over, you find something for you?”

  Gibson didn’t know how to explain that there wasn’t going to be an afterward for him. He realized he’d been saying good-bye to the people and places that made up his life. Casting them off before whatever came next. Swonger was another piece of that old life. The last piece, as fate would have it. This time tomorrow, he’d either be dead or in custody. He smiled at his friend.

  Swonger narrowed his eyes. “Dog . . . you about to burst into song or some shit? Why you giving me the Disney-princess eyes?”

  Gibson chuckled. “Something like that,” he said and handed Swonger an envelope with five thousand dollars inside.

  Swonger tried to give it back. “What I tell you? Don’t want your money.”

  “It isn’t my money. And believe me, she can spare it. Take it.”

  Swonger relented and ran his thumb through the stack of bills approvingly. “Was going to hit the casino up in DC anyway. Now it be like playing with house money. Gonna play me some blackjack tonight, boy.”

  “There’s a casino in DC?”

  “MGM National Harbor. Dog, you really went away.”

  And would again once this was over. One way or another.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  The van idled at the checkpoint, waiting to be cleared through from land-side to air-side. Gibson knew one of the officers on duty. They said hello, and Gibson handed him his badge. The officer disappeared into the security booth to run the plates and Gibson’s credentials. Gibson counted at least four security cameras. It made him jittery knowing this was the point of no return, but he chatted amiably with the officer. He was pulling it off fine until Duke piped up.

  “Tell him how the airport looks like a wave. I bet he’s a poetry lover too.”

  Gibson’s head snapped around before he could stop himself. He glared at his father and mouthed, “Shut up.” When he turned back, the officer had a troubled look on his face.

  “You all right, pal?”

  Gibson did his best to play it off, improvising a story about headaches and neck pain. The officer didn’t seem overly sympathetic. Gibson tried to change the subject, get the conversation rolling again, but the officer stepped back and cut him off.

  “Sir, step out of the vehicle.”

  Gibson asked what the problem was, but the officer only repeated his command, so he did as he was told. Duke looked pleased with himself. The officer kept a watchful eye on him until the other officer came back from the booth with Gibson’s badge. He gave his partner a questioning look.

  “What’s going on?”

  The officers conferred in whispers while Gibson wondered how far he’d get if he ran. He kicked himself for falling for Duke’s provocation. He’d made progress learning to block out Duke and Bear, but when it counted, he’d failed. Jenn had been right. It was over before it even began, and it was all his fault. He’d blown it.

  “All right, Gibson. You’re good to go,” the first officer said, handing him back his badge.

  Gibson looked at it in surprise. “Everything okay?”

  “Yeah, he’s new like you. Good guy. Little gung ho is all.”

  Gibson got back in the van and watched the gate open. The officer told him to take care of his neck and slapped the side of the van. Not exactly how he’d drawn it up, but he was through to the air-side. He wouldn’t get that lucky twice. “Keep it together,” he repeated aloud over and over like a mantra.

  The commercial wing of Dulles was composed of three parallel terminals. When Gibson had been a kid, mobile lounges—lumbering, seventy-ton, buslike vehicles—had shuttled passengers back and forth between the main concourse and the outer terminals. It was a slow, inefficient system, and in 2010, Dulles had finally replaced the mobile lounges with an underground rail system, but Gibson still felt nostalgic for the old buses. It had been exhilarating to be out on the tarmac among the behemoths as they started, then stopped, showing deference for the
gleaming 747s. Almost like being on safari among dinosaurs—at least to a little boy.

  Gibson felt a trace of that now as he steered the van along Alpha Road, a utility corridor that fronted the main concourse. Everything was scaled to enormous proportions; his van was dwarfed by the aircraft and larger service vehicles. Jenn had reviewed the protocols and procedures for driving on this part of the airport, but Gibson worried he’d make a mistake and a late-arriving Airbus would bulldoze him into the tarmac. He took it slow and made nervous full stops like a kid taking his first driver’s test.

  “You remember when we flew out of here?” he asked Duke.

  “If you remember, I remember.”

  “You knew every aircraft.”

  “I made all of that up,” Duke said.

  “No, you didn’t.”

  “Call it eighty-twenty, then.” Duke winked at him, and for a moment Gibson saw his father. His real father, not the angry ghoul that his subconscious had birthed. Duke Vaughn wouldn’t have wanted any of this for his son. He hadn’t been a vengeful or spiteful man. It would sadden him to know Gibson had fallen so far. Gibson thought that was an important idea and one worth holding on to.

  “You’re not the man I thought you’d be,” Duke said.

  “I know. Me neither.”

  His father looked taken aback at how easily Gibson had acquiesced. “What’s wrong with you?”

  “I don’t want to fight with you anymore,” Gibson said.

  “That’s too bad, because I’m not done fighting with you.”

  “I know,” Gibson said and turned off Alpha Road. The van disappeared between the satellite buildings that provided support services for the terminals and airlines. He followed the signs for NW Service Road. To his right, the van passed a series of freight hangars, and even at this late hour they were a beehive of activity. Commercial flights stopped before midnight, but cargo flights came and went around the clock. Overnight shipping meant exactly that. Out the driver’s side window, the runways stretched out of sight. He checked the time. Jenn should be on the ground by now. He accelerated as much as he dared.