Allegiance: A Jackson Quick Adventure Read online

  I hop on the train and sit in a rear facing seat with my backpack in my lap. The train lumbers into motion and begins its jerky trek through the bowels of the airport. Next to the train is a carpeted walkway. A few people are speed walking from one terminal to another; others are clearly airport employees who are exercising during a break.

  The first stop is the Marriott Hotel. I pull out my new smartphone and look for a signal. I have one, but it’s weak. There’s really nobody to call anyhow. George is on his flight by now.

  A recorded voice announces our arrival at the hotel and the train stops. The doors slide open. Through the glass window in the back of my small train car, I can see a couple getting into the car behind mine. They’re lugging two huge suitcases and have trouble arranging themselves.

  Terminal C is next. That’s the busiest part of the airport, since United runs every gate. I turn off my phone and slide it back into the outside pocket of the backpack.

  “Now approaching Terminal C,” says the recorded, non-regional, pleasant sounding woman’s voice over the train’s speaker system. “Please gather your belongings and exit carefully.”

  I lean back and close my eyes while the doors slide open. The adrenaline that’s kept me moving is draining its way out of my system. People shuffle on and off of the train in the other cars. It’s two more stops until I get off at Terminal A.

  “Now departing for Terminals D and E,” says the recorded voice. “Departing Terminal C.” I can hear the train rumble to life as we jerk toward the next stop.

  “You don’t know whachur doin’,” says a voice close to me. “You’re clueless.”

  I sit up and open my eyes. There’s a man sitting in the seat across from me. He’s wearing a cheap looking blue blazer with a burgundy tie, gray pants, and a pair of brown leather boots. His hair is gelled flat against his muscular head and his teeth are clenching a toothpick.

  He looks familiar.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Ah said,” his southern drawl is distractingly thick, “yew don’t know whachur doin’. You’re all mixed up in a big thang that’s got yew runnin’ scared. You think you can figgur it out.” I don’t say anything. I’m trying to place his face and his accent.

  “Butcha caynt.” He leans back against the plastic seat and crosses his legs. His blazer drops open against the seat and I can see a handgun holstered against his left side. “Deep down,” he says with a smirk, glancing momentarily at the gun he knows I’ve spotted, “yew know you’re in over your head.”

  “Who are you?” I ask, tightening my grip on my backpack.

  “Detective Crockett,” he spits out his name like a wad of tobacco. “We met at the hospital. You bolted on me.” He says you like he’s referring to a sheep.

  “What do you want, Detective?” My inflection makes it clear we both know he’s not a cop. The train jerks around a tight corner on the tracks.

  “I guess that kinda depends on what you want, Jackson.”

  “I want to know why you’re interested in me. I want to know why my friend Bobby is dead. I want to know what you want from me.”

  He pulls the toothpick from his teeth and leans forward, his palms flat against the edge of the plastic seat. On his right hand is a military insignia, maybe the Marines. On his pinkie and middle finger are numbers or letters – either fives or Ss. On his ring finger there’s a straight line or slash, and on his trigger finger, leading from the back of his hand to his middle knuckle, the letters B-O-O-M. He sees me looking at the ink and smirks, pinching the toothpick tighter between his pursed lips.

  “I want you to git off of this train and skip wherever it is you think you’re goin’,” he spins the toothpick along his teeth. “Cause that ain’t gonna happen.”

  “And if I don’t?”

  “Right,” he laughs. “We’re gonna git off together here at the next stop. You are gonna come with me. Maybe, once you do that, you’ll get some of the other answers you want. Got it?”

  I don’t respond. Or move.

  “Now approaching Terminals D and E,” says the recording. “Please gather your belongings and exit carefully.”

  Detective Crockett stands with the help of a chrome pole in the middle of the car. He holds the toothpick back loosely in the center of his lips like a cigarette, motioning with his hand for me to stand. The train is still moving.

  I slowly stand up, holding the backpack in front me, and move toward the doors to face the glass. I can feel him move up behind me on my left. He’s shorter than I am but he’s more muscular.

  “Awright,” he tells me, “when this train stops, you’re gonna walk to the left.”

  “What?” I ask him as the train shudders to a stop.

  He starts to repeat himself, but as he opens his mouth to speak, I swing to my left and throw an elbow to his face. I hit his mouth, shoving the toothpick past his teeth.

  He grunts and staggers back into the chrome pole, grabbing his throat with his tattooed hand and pitifully reaching for me with the other. I can see his eyes bulging with shock and blood pouring from his mouth.

  The doors slide open and I turn to run. Instead of turning left, I bolt to the right. There’s a twinge in my right knee. If I can get to Terminal A and past security before he can find me, I’ll be okay. He can’t get through the TSA checkpoint with his gun.

  ***

  “That’ll be three hundred and seventy-nine dollars, Mr. Quick,” the US Airways desk agent says. “And I’ll need to see your identification.”

  “It’ll be cash,” I tell her, handing her eight fifty dollar bills. Ridiculous for a one-way ticket. “Here’s my driver’s license.” She takes the money and my ID. “You’re sure you don’t need a return ticket?” She glances at the picture on the ID and at me before handing it back.

  “No thanks. Not sure when I’m coming back yet.”

  She hands me my change and my boarding pass. “Have a safe flight, Mr. Quick. You’ll be boarding at gate A18. Security is to the left and down the short hallway.”

  After thanking her, I turn and scan the crowds. There’s no sign of Detective Toothpick. Still, I walk over to a row of seats near a Starbucks and drop my backpack onto one of the chairs. I unzip the large compartment, grab the hoodie, and pull it on over my T-shirt.

  Across the terminal lobby, I spot a news stand and walk quickly over to the shop. There’s a tan colored “Houston-Space City” baseball cap on a mirrored rack next to the magnets and snow globes. I grab it, yank off the tag, put the cap on my head, and get in line at the register.

  There are two people in front of me. The man working the cash register is painfully slow. I slip the cap lower across my brow and work the bill with my thumbs, trying to curve the fit. It’s not fitting like Bobby’s worn UT cap, which I must have lost in the car accident.

  From beneath the stubborn bill, my eyes scan the crowds. Everyone in a black top is suspect. I don’t see the detective or Charlie. It hits me. I’m stupid for only now piecing this together.

  Charlie knew where I was going. She had to know I was at Rice. The black suits knew I was at Rice. Charlie and the black suits could be on the same team.

  Charlie and the detective were both at the hospital. He shows up at the airport after I shake Charlie. The detective could be one of the black suits.

  But if they’re all working together, why did the black suits want me dead while Charlie didn’t try to kill me?

  The detective could have killed me. He didn’t. Maybe Charlie and the detective are on one team and the black suits are on another.

  Are some of them working for Buell? Are some on the Governor’s payroll? Where does The Saint fit in to all of this? Whose side is he backing?

  My head starts to throb again. Maybe I wasn’t stupid for not thinking of all of these possibilities before. I reach the front of the line and spot a small bottle of Tylenol on the counter. I slide it over in front of the cashier and plop the hat tag onto the counter.

  “This and the hat,�
�� I point to the cap on my head. “How much?”

  “Twenty-three dollars even,” the cashier says, punching the buttons on the register without looking at me. I hand him a fifty, pocket the change, and start to trudge toward security.

  Then I see her.

  Charlie!

  She’s standing directly between me and the wide hallway dividing the ticketing terminal from the security checkpoint and the gates. Her hair is pulled back in a long ponytail and she’s wearing sunglasses. It’s her. Tall. Auburn hair. Kick-ass body. Definitely her.

  She clearly hasn’t seen me yet, but there’s no way for me to move past her without being noticed.

  I turn around and step back to the news stand. If I stand just right, I can see her in the mirrored rack that holds a couple of Space City hats. She’s looking at every man passing her on his way to security. She glances at her phone. I’m easily fifty yards from her. She doesn’t see me.

  A tall man on his cell phone is standing directly behind me. “I don’t know,” he says to whoever is on the other end. “I guess I’ll check with baggage downstairs.”

  Bingo.

  “Excuse me,” I say to the clerk behind the register. “Are you able to page people from your phone?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Like a loudspeaker page. You know, from the airport. I’m trying to locate someone.”

  “Oh, yes. We can do that. Who are you looking for?” He picks up the receiver to the cordless phone on the counter and pushes a couple of numbers.

  “I need to meet Ms. Corday in Terminal B baggage claim.”

  He raises the phone to his ear, tells the operator, or whoever, what to announce, and hangs up. “Thanks.” I turn back to the mirrored rack and hear the announcement over the airport’s public address system.

  “Ms. Corday, please meet your party at the Terminal B baggage claim,” it’s a pleasant female voice. “Ms. Corday, your party is waiting for you at the Terminal B baggage claim.”

  My view in the mirror is unobstructed, so I can see Charlie clearly staffing her post. At first, she doesn’t seem to hear the announcement. She tilts her head, squints, and checks her phone again. She punches something into the screen and puts the device to her ear.

  She starts walking purposefully toward the center of the terminal and a bank of elevators, still talking to someone on the phone. Her free hand is flailing. She’s clearly irritated. When she reaches the elevator doors and presses a button, I turn toward security with my head down, and walk quickly to the checkpoint. Despite the temptation, I don’t turn back to look at her.

  By the time I’ve cleared security, my head feels better. Once I’ve boarded the plane, my pulse has slowed.

  I’m in seat thirteen A. It’s a small aircraft and seats maybe seventy people. Thankfully I’m in the emergency exit row. I’ve got a little extra legroom but my side is uncomfortable in the tight seat. There are two flight attendants helping the other passengers with their bags and the flight seems full.

  I lean forward and pull out the emergency information card. The plane is a Bombardier CRJ700. I don’t know why I do it, but I always like to check the emergency card and learn the type of plane. Not that it’ll make any difference if we crash.

  A woman slides into 13B next to me. She smiles at me and slips her small purse under the seat in front of her. I smile back and shift my weight to the left, against the interior wall of the plane.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” a deep male voice fills the cabin through the intercom, “welcome aboard flight 2551 to El Paso, Texas. We appreciate you choosing US Airways for your travel plans today. Our trip will take approximately one hour and nineteen minutes. We’ll be cruising at 515 miles per hour and should have you to the gate a couple of minutes early.”

  I tune out the rest of his message and close my eyes.

  Chapter 6

  I remember being in a rhythm. In my head and on the track.

  Breathe. Stride. Step. Stride. Step. Breathe.

  The air was cool and damp, filling my lungs through my nose as I ran. Each breath out through my mouth was warm and puffed little clouds of fog as I chugged along the asphalt. It felt good. The burn in my legs was invigorating. My quads felt muscular and lean as they helped propel me forward.

  Breathe. Stride. Step. Stride. Step. Breathe.

  In through the nose. Out through the mouth. A small puff of air against the cool of the early evening. Chug. Chug. Chug.

  I was on the junior high track, running my eleventh of twelve planned laps on the inside lane. I was running three miles after school, a good way to clear my mind and take a mental break before homework. All the organized teams were gone for the afternoon, so I was alone, with a mini-walkman strapped to my arm and Carl Carlton singing into my earphones. I was in an early 1980s funk phase.

  Breathe. Stride. Step. Stride. Step. Breathe.

  I was watching another puff of air dissolve in front of my nose, and totally into the music, when Blair Loxley appeared out of nowhere, tackling me onto the grass infield.

  The hulk had been harassing me on and off for weeks. Since the locker incident, he’d found opportune moments to punch or trip me out of the sight of any adults. I’d punched back a couple of times, but for the most part I’d tried to avoid him. Either he found me easy pickings or a challenge.

  Regardless, he was on top of me, straddling my hips as I tried to wriggle free. He was too strong and his first punch caught me in the right shoulder below my neck. The second hit was to my left jaw. My headphones were tangled around my neck, ripped from their connection to the mini-walkman still strapped to my thin bicep.

  The third blow was to my ribs with his right elbow. I was taking a beating while he held me in place with his weight and left forearm.

  “Take what’s coming to you,” he grumbled as I struggled against him. “Take what’s coming to you, Jacktard.”

  I could hear crying, a foreign whining that sounded like a small child. It must have been me. There wasn’t anyone else around.

  I was already winded from the more than two and half mile run. Once I’d taken his first salvo, I managed enough strength to knee him in the groin.

  He grunted and grabbed himself, momentarily losing his hold of me. I used that split second to roll away from him and scramble to my feet.

  I backed away from him and turned to run, but the adrenaline knocked me off balance and I fell to the ground, my chin sliding on the damp St. Augustine grass. By the time I’d managed to get to my feet again, he had me in a bear hug and lifted me off the ground before throwing me down.

  My foot slammed awkwardly onto the ground, twisting my ankle and knee. Something popped and I felt a bolt of pain shoot from my knee to my foot as I fell awkwardly to the side. I let out a bizarre wail. The pain was like breaking glass.

  Through the tears in my eyes I could see Loxley standing over me, his fists still clenched. His knuckles were white. I remember the anger in those knuckles. In those angry eyes, I saw something new. There was fear.

  He knew he’d gone too far. Pushing me against a locker and punching my gut was one thing. Attacking me on the track and tearing the anterior cruciate ligament in my right knee was something else.

  “You’re the one who’s gonna take what’s coming to you now!” I screamed at him through tears and spit. “You’re in for it now. I’m gonna kill you!”

  Loxley took in the words without saying anything. He kept glancing at my knee. The bully refocused his gaze, narrowed his eyes, and spit on me.

  “Whatever, Jacktard!” He sneered, turned, and walked away. No explanation. No apology.

  I stayed on the ground for what must have been a half hour before a school maintenance worker found me and helped me from the field in a golf cart.

  I never told my parents how it had happened. They believed it was an accident that happened during my run.

  I never wanted to involve them or allow them to worry about me. I wanted to handle my own problems, to fix them by
myself.

  I missed the next three weeks of school. After surgery, crutches, and six months of rehabilitation, I was back on the track. It was slow at first, but I made a full recovery. At least my knee did. It occasionally ached from prolonged sitting or an awkward turn. It wasn’t bad. Not nearly as bad as what happened the next and last time Loxley and I got together.

  ***

  “I’ve turned on the seat belt sign,” the captain alerts the cabin as we begin our descent into El Paso. “Please remain in your seats with those belts fastened until we’ve arrived at the gate and come to a complete stop. Thanks again for choosing US Airways.”

  Through the emergency exit window, there’s a bright sky over West Texas and northern Mexico. The ground below slowly rises to meet our plane, and I focus on the veiny fingers of creeks and rivers almost dry in the tan hills west of the city. It’s barren almost; a wasteland. It’s like humanity has died and left behind an earth ready to rejuvenate itself. The world is free of consumption, ambition, and conspiracy.

  We’ve descended a few hundred feet and rush past the neighborhoods that bridge the mountains from the runway.

  I scan the small homes lining the blacktop streets. Most of the houses or trailers are on dirt lots without sodded yards. They look dry, save the occasional dot of green brush. It’s a big sandbox. I imagine the lives inside those houses and, right now, in this moment, I envy them.

  They have a home. They have a family. They know their place in the world for better and worse. They’re not running for their lives. They’re living them.

  Me? I don’t know what’s next.

  I don’t know what I’ll find in the mountains. Even if I get the answers I need, will it be enough to stop the people trying to catch me or kill me?

  My stomach drops when the landing gear hits the runway. The wheels screech and the airplane bounces into the air before settling again onto the ground, whining to a slower speed.