The Easy Way Out

44

The taxi squeaked to the curb in front of the Greenville-Spartanburg Airport. Rachel shoved a fifty-dollar bill at the driver, threw open the door, and struggled to lift the duffel wedged on the floor.

Packs of luggage-laden passengers swarmed the walkway around her while just a few hundred yards above, 500 tons of aluminum airliner roared, cutting a path into the sky.

A skycap approached. "Help you with your bags, ma'am?"

"I'm good." Rachel dropped the heavy canvas bag at her feet with a thump, then slipped the strap of her bag over her shoulder.

"You sure?" he said with a polite smile, seeming not to mind the heat.

"I got this."

She lost her breath when she noticed a shiny Lincoln at the end of the driveway, headed in her direction. If she had any chance of outrunning them she needed to stash the money and get the hell out of there.

She darted through the vestibule into the terminal, hustling past the check-ins, looking down the corridor for signage. Her biceps burned with the strain of lugging the bag. She checked the airport directory, glancing over her shoulder for signs of Pat and Karas.

An airport security officer approached. "Can I help you, ma'am?" He crossed his arms casually.

"Lockers," she said, still scanning the directory.

"What?"

She removed her sunglasses and looked him dead in the eye. "Baggage lockers," she said thickly with her Southern drawl.

He chuckled. "When's the last time you flew, miss?"

Having observed flight listings on the departure board for New Orleans, she replied, "Last year. Mardi Gras."

He gave her a broad smile, all teeth. "Miss, airports haven't had storage lockers since 9/11. The TSA had them all removed." He shook his head. "Damn terrorists ruined everything."

Her scowl deepened. Then noticing blood on the cuff of her jacket, she shoved her hand into her pocket.

He cocked an eyebrow.

"Well, change of plans, I guess." She flashed a lopsided grin, then grunted as she lugged her canvas bag across the lobby. Out of her peripheral vision, she saw a large man in a suit coming through the sliding glass doors behind her, a glint of light catching the gold chains around his thick neck.

Merging with the stream of pedestrians, she discarded her red cap and sunglasses in a waste receptacle, her eyes darting from the blue Auntie Anne's pretzel shop sign to Starbucks to the restrooms, assessing her options. When she peeked over her shoulder, she'd lost sight of him.

The bag felt like it was loaded with bricks. She dropped it onto the floor near the water fountain, her back against the concrete wall. She rolled the ponytail holder from her wrist over her hand and, in one rehearsed motion, drew her hair into a nubby ponytail and secured it. She considered shedding the Gamecocks jacket but was reminded of her injured elbow and her blood-streaked forearm, which were certain to draw unwanted attention.

Searching further down the terminal, she saw a line of rental car counters but with no credit cards, ID, or driver's license, renting a car was not a viable option. She closed her jumpy eyes and drew a deep breath knowing that panic could make you forget how to think. It began to seep into her consciousness, that terrible feeling of being abandoned. Of being vulnerable. She distracted herself, shaking it off focusing on the one thing she knew for sure. She needed to keep moving.

She hefted the canvas duffel and strode along the main corridor, nudging her way between clusters of people in shorts, sandals, and tropical prints. Just before reaching the escalators, she was nearly run over by a speed-walking jackass too engrossed in his phone to notice or care about surrounding pedestrians.

"Asshole," she muttered at him over her shoulder then turned back to catch sight of a sign for long-term parking, the garage visible through a succession of windows.

She picked up her pace toward the exit, then banged the glass door open with the heel of her hand, leaving the comfort of the air-conditioned concourse behind. When she stepped out into the garage she noticed a floor marked WEEKLY PARKING 7-10 DAYS.

A red BMW sedan sped up the ramp and abruptly wheeled into a parking spot just across the way. As she watched the driver hurriedly removing his luggage from the trunk, extending and locking the handle into place, she recognized an opportunity. She opened another shirt button, pushed up her boobs, then fast-stepped toward him, looking in the opposite direction. She slammed into the man with a loud, "Oof," her shoulder bag and the duffel dislodged and tumbling.

Once he got his bearings, taken by the attractive young woman, his irritated expression melted into a boyish smile. "Oh, I'm sorry," he said. "Let me help you with that, hon." He lifted her bag from the concrete floor.

"I thought I parked my car in section D." She spread a layer of anxiety over her words for effect.

"This is C." He handed her the shoulder bag, his eyes going to her exposed bra.

She sighed, looking around, confused.

"Next floor up, hon," he said. "Gotta run. Gonna miss my flight."

"Have a safe trip." She grinned and off he went, pulling his hard shell business wheelie behind him. She watched him jogging toward the airport main terminal and waited for a minute to ensure that he wasn't coming back before producing the key fob she'd taken from his pocket.

She pointed the stolen key fob at the BMW. The lights flashed and the trunk popped open. She trotted to the car, heaved the duffel into the trunk, and slammed the trunk lid closed.

On her way down the ramp, she felt eyes on her. A lanky man with a crew cut, a hard face with hollow cheeks watched her through the window. There was something vaguely familiar about him. Although she'd seen them from a distance, he looked like one of the men who had ambushed Blake at the Red Star Motel.

When Gizmo shoved the door open, entering the garage at the top of the ramp behind her, she was relieved to be free of the burdensome duffel. As a car passed her on its way up the ramp, she broke into a run, sprinting. She didn't turn around but she could hear the slap, slap, slap of Gizmo's heavy boots on the concrete floor.