Exit Strategy (Nadia Stafford 1)

"Right." Pause. "Luggage?"

I lifted my carry-on. "Just this."

He glanced around, as if uncertain what to do next.

"You really didn't expect me to get off that plane, did you?" I said.

"That look you gave me Saturday? Figured it was a no go."

"I could get on the next flight."

A slow quarter-smile. "Gotta earn your way home."

"I plan to. Where to first?"

"Breakfast."

Jack offered to grab food while I used the washroom.

When I emerged, Jack was still in line at a bagel place. I caught his attention and waved to a spot out of the through-fares. He nodded and I hefted my bag to my shoulder and walked to stand between a group of young men and a sunglasses kiosk.

"--like I told the cop, it was an accident," one of the young men was saying.

"Yeah," another answered. "Bitch's arm got in your way and next thing you know, it's broken. Whoops."

A chorus of snickers. I turned the other way, getting a look at them through the mirrors on the kiosk. Three guys, maybe early twenties, all white, dressed in baggy clothes, do-rags and shades. Gangsta wannabes, trash-talking at full volume, thinking it's cool to brag about breaking a girlfriend's arm.

Then I saw the kid half hidden off to the side. No more than eleven, probably younger, dressed like the big boys--probably a cousin or nephew. He stared up in rapture, absorbing every word.

"...restraining order. Can you believe it? Won't fucking let me see my own kid, all because she's pissed off about a broken arm, and if she thinks that's going to stop me, bitch better think again, because a restraining order ain't no magic security system. Ain't gonna stop me from bustin' into her place whenever I want to, and if she don't like it, a broken arm's gonna be the least of her worries."

"You tell her."

They continued, ignoring the glares from people passing. No, not ignoring the glares--reveling in them, because that's what it was all about, getting attention, making people scared of you.

I glanced again in the mirror, focused on the young man doing all the bragging and felt a familiar swirling in my gut.

What if he was a target, a hit?

First, I'd have to get him away from the pack. There was always an opportunity. Nature would call. Or he'd decide he needed a Coke. Maybe a cigarette. Or he'd whip out his cell and step outside for better reception.

Once away from his pack, I'd need to be able to identify him from a distance or find him in a crowd, even if he was with twenty guys who could pass for his brothers. Distinguishing features? A puckered scar on his left earlobe, as if he'd pierced it himself, then changed his mind. I noticed the wear pattern on his navy high-tops, the soles worn along the outside of the heels, as if he walked slightly bow-legged. His clothing could always be changed. Yet someone suspecting a tail rarely changes his footwear. Shoes and jewelry. Always make a note.

As he talked, a jangling underscored his words, and I traced it to a chain hanging off his belt. I closed my eyes and memorized the sound. Then I noted the sound of his voice, the inflection, the accent.

My target said something to his buddies, stepped away and headed for the doors.

"You ready?" Jack's voice startled me. He lifted a tray of coffees and bagels.

One last glance after my target, then I nodded and followed Jack out of the terminal.

We dined on stale bagels and lukewarm coffee, consumed in the ambience of engine thunder and jet fuel fumes.

"So what's the plan?" I said as I perched on the hood of Jack's rental car. "Have you met with the other guys? Come up with some theories?"

"Nah. Figured you'd want to do that."

I stopped licking cream cheese off my fingers. "Meet the others? If I can avoid it, I'd really rather--"