“You did what?” I yelped.
“Shhh, Sam.” Duncan had somehow managed to curl his massive, six-foot-and-lots-of-inches frame onto the conveyor belt that lurched through the darkness. “They’ll hear you!”
Mythic Airline’s Backdoor was a fast, secret route straight up to Baggage Claim, and it had only one rule: be quiet. If you’re going to pop out onto the luggage carousel like some suitcase, you don’t want people watching. And they do watch, when they hear voices.
I didn’t care.
“We’ll tell them we’re doing maintenance,” I hissed. “I certainly look like it—you didn’t even give me a chance to change out of my coveralls!”
“There wasn’t time, Sam,” he glanced down at his watch, which glowed a faint green as we traveled through the underbelly of Baggage Claim. “Besides, anything can happen when you’re in the air!”
“But it wasn’t anything, was it?”
“It only took a flick of Peach’s—” when he saw how horrified I was, he changed tactics, ticking his points off his fingers. “One: ya said you wanted him here. Two: he didn’t respond to any of your calls. Three: now, after very minor “technical difficulties,” his jet is here! You have . . . eight minutes to find pretty boy and convince him to give us a ton of money.”
Duncan also liked numbers.
“It’s an investment opportunity,” I corrected, even though it really was the same thing.
“You have the proposal?” asked Duncan.
I tried to smooth the papers across my coveralls. “It’s wrinkled. And smudged! You didn’t even give me a folder for it.”
“I gave you a bag to put it in.”
“You gave me a duffel!”
I held up the enormous canvas bag, and he shook his head, bewildered that I wasn’t delighted to have it.
Duncan was a huge man who liked to think about small things: like the snowflakes he photographed or the tiny mechanical creatures he built out of old-fashioned watches. His genius extended to bigger things, too—like designing the special equipment we used at Mythic.
But his brilliance roared to a screeching halt when it came to practical, everyday things like . . . regular meals . . . or realizing how silly I’d look pulling a ten-page business proposal out of a black duffel. It certainly hadn’t occurred to him that I’d like time to wash the grease off my hands. Or brush my hair.
I smoothed my hair back into the scarf that held it out of my face. Maybe the bit of red silk would make me look more professional.
Right, Sam. You’re a thirteen-year-old girl in mechanic’s coveralls with a wadded-up business proposal. But that scarf is gonna make all the difference!
The light shining through the rubber flaps ahead of us grew brighter. We were almost there, but you couldn’t rush this part. The black rollerboard ten feet ahead of us needed to go out first.
Folks get excited about people popping out of a baggage claim carousel. So Duncan had rigged a rollerboard, the luggage practically everyone drags around, with a device that signaled to the other luggage carousels down in Baggage Claim. About the time we needed to step out, their lights would start flashing and they’d signal that several new batches of luggage were arriving. From Paris, for instance. Or Bora Bora. Even though the airport wasn’t international.
It meant that, combined with a high-volume test of the airport's security caution system, no one was the wiser. It also meant that Southwest Regional Airport had a reputation for the glitchiest baggage claim ever. Some folks even posted photos of the crazier announcements on social media. (Carousel 4 had its own hashtag.)
Once we passed through the flaps, I jumped off the belt. Duncan followed close behind, the entire belt groaning as he got off.
I glanced around, just to be sure no one had seen.
One little boy looked at us suspiciously, but Duncan just waved at him. Then he checked his watch. “Five minutes to get to General Aviation.”
I ran, the stupid duffel flapping behind me.
He followed me out the double doors of baggage claim, past the rental car parking lot, to General Aviation, the part of the airport where private planes land. Duncan pulled out his security badge as we neared the General Aviation gates and touched it to the sensor. We jogged through the gates as they silently opened.
As we ran, I mentally rehearsed the first bullet points on my now-wrinkled proposal: “Mythic Airlines has a rich history . . . so much more than just our fleet of DC-3s . . .”
We were on the ramp now, the paved part next to the runway where planes are parked.
Duncan slid to a stop, hiding behind a yellow-and-black-striped traffic barrier.
It didn’t help. Parts of him stuck out on every side.
I crouched beside him.
“One minute,” said Duncan, checking his watch. “He’s in a Lear.”
I scanned the ramp, trying to see past the rows of parked jets and smaller planes.
“There!” I ran, skirting the edges of a fuel truck, and ducking behind some of the larger jets. I glanced behind and saw Duncan following me with all the grace and stealth of a charging bull elephant.
Security was going to notice us any second.
They did; and then they started running towards us.
I whirled to face them, reaching for my “borrowed” security badge, praying it would work.
The three men didn’t even stop, just brushed past me.
Probably because of the fistfight on the runway.
Right in front of the Lear, two boys circled each other with raised fists.
Duncan grabbed my arm and hauled me behind a Cessna.
“Is that him?” I asked.
“I think it is,” groaned Duncan.
To his credit, the boy handled himself well. His opponent was twice his size: a big, lumbering oaf dense enough to fall for the same tricks again and again. The big kid threw a crushing right hook; the smaller boy dodged and counterpunched with a jab to the chin.
Yes!
"That's what you get, ugly." Thin and wiry, the smaller boy flashed a defiant grin. He wasn’t dressed half as fashionably as I’d thought he’d be. His hair needed trimming and his glasses were lopsided. But a strength radiated from his core, an indomitable spirit that overshadowed and out-shined the bully’s designer jeans and boy-band haircut.
Oh, yes. He is exactly what we need. We might just make this work.
Still, his opponent was much bigger, advancing slowly and determinedly. He just absorbed the boy's punches and one-liners like a wave.
Eventually, the big guy landed a hard punch to the gut.
I grabbed my own stomach in sympathy as our guy doubled over in pain.
He curled into a fetal position on the ground, and the aggressor lumbered over and kicked him a few times in the side, just to make sure he’d stay down.
I didn’t realize I was moving till Duncan yanked me back.
“Just give me one minute with him and a blow torch,” I muttered. “He’ll never kick someone when they’re down again.”
But the bully wasn’t finished. He picked our guy’s pockets, removed a thin wad of cash, and stuffed it into his own wallet—
—just before walking right into the security officers.
I could’ve cheered.
Duncan lowered his head.
“C’mon!” I dragged Duncan forward. “Let’s help him up. I can’t believe he’s the one! Did you see the way he stood up to that troll? He’s absolutely going to be on our side. And to think I was worried!"
"Actually..."
"What?" I looked back at the man who’d practically raised me the past two years. “You’re worried he’s too weak? Too easily beaten?”
"No, nothing like that. It's just that... well... technically speaking... we're not here for him.”
“That’s not him, after all?”
“No…”
“Well then where is he?”
Duncan pointed a finger toward the bully who’d just beat up and robbed a smaller kid, now being led off between three security guards.
“No!”
“Yeah.” Duncan rubbed the back of his neck. “And now we’d better go rescue him.”