Poisonfeather (Gibson Vaughn #2)(91)
In the passenger seat, his phone vibrated, then vibrated again and again, signaling incoming text messages. Gibson drove a mile or two before snatching it up: “Lea Regan (3 Messages).”
“Nope, nope, nope, not my problem anymore,” he said and dropped the phone back in the passenger seat. His show of callous bravado lasted less than two miles before he pulled to the side of the road. He stared accusingly at his phone, then, with a resigned sigh, picked it up.
I don’t know if you can see the stars where you are, but they’re beautiful. So many. Been here two years but never noticed them before. Funny right?
I’m at Dule Tree Airfield with my father. Just watched his plane leave without him. It was beautiful. Don’t know how you did it, but it worked. They’ll be coming for us soon. Thank you. Goodbye and good luck.—L.
If you’re still in Niobe, get out.
There was a lot to digest in those three messages, and he read them through a few more times, trying to parse her tone—tone being the hardest thing to convey in a text message. Her words didn’t read as scared, and she didn’t seem under duress. That should have been a good sign, but he didn’t like her good-bye one bit. It didn’t sound like the Lea he knew. She sounded resigned. Fatalistic.
Gibson could see the chain of events that led to her messages. If she knew there was no money, then Merrick must have tried to access it. If his plane had left without him, then he had needed the money to get himself out of the country. But it wasn’t there because Gibson had taken what little remained. That had left Merrick at the mercy of his many enemies, and frankly Gibson felt fine with that. Merrick deserved whatever he got. But how would Emerson and the fifth floor react? He remembered clearly what Emerson had said he believed. That he would kill them all. Well, Gibson had a bad feeling that Emerson might be making good on his threat.
Gibson looked up Dule Tree Airfield and let his GPS plot the fastest route. Then he spun the wheel and turned the van toward the airfield and muted his inner voice before it realized his destination. Around the first bend, he saw a familiar gray Scion idling on the shoulder. Of course, Swonger was still following him; he didn’t know anything else. Gibson slowed to a stop in the middle of the road and rolled down his window.
“What are you doing?” Gibson yelled over.
Swonger stared straight ahead, both hands on the wheel. Maybe he thought that was how invisibility worked? Gibson didn’t know what went on in his head.
“Swonger.” Nothing. “You know I can see you, right?”
A car zipped between them, horn wailing. Swonger didn’t so much as blink, stubborn as a two-year-old at bath time. Gibson waited, but Swonger looked prepared to turn blue before he’d acknowledge Gibson. So be it; he didn’t have time to deal with this now. Gibson left Swonger to play statue, but a quarter mile down the road, Gibson saw the Scion swing around to follow.
Swonger made a point of riding the van’s bumper all the way to Dule Tree Airfield. Gone were the days of following Gibson at a discreet distance. Gibson made no effort to get away; that would have felt foolish and been a waste of energy. He turned off the main road and climbed the dirt road to the airfield. The Scion followed. At the gate, Gibson killed his lights and coasted slowly toward the main office; he didn’t see anyone, but that didn’t mean they were alone. Behind him, at the front gate, the Scion waited patiently. Seeing no other apparent way out, Swonger seemed content to leave him to his reconnoiter.
Something had crashed into the chain-link fence surrounding the hangar. The impact had caved in several sections, and judging by the deep tire tracks, it had taken a lot of tire-spinning to dislodge whatever vehicle had been responsible. In the moonlight, Gibson followed the tracks out onto the field abutting the runway, afraid of who or what he might find in the tall grass. But apart from a torn-up field, Gibson didn’t see any hint of Lea’s whereabouts. It was a relief, but not much of one . . . something bad had happened here.
Gibson drove around the grounds, looking for anything out of the ordinary, but came up empty. Lea was right, though—there were so many stars.
Over on the far side of the airfield, a light in the trees caught his eye. It rippled among the branches, but he couldn’t see its source. Curious, he drove to the tree line, which dropped away down a hillside. He grabbed a flashlight and walked to the edge. Thirty feet down, cars had been rolled off the edge and lay stacked on top of each other like models at the bottom of a kid’s toy chest. A shattered pyramid of metal and chrome. Gibson also found the source of the light—one of the cars was wedged upright between two SUVs; it stood on its hind end, headlights illuminating the canopy above.
His sense of relief shaken, Gibson clambered down the hillside to an SUV that had rolled to a stop against a tree away from the main pileup. Other than a shattered windshield, it looked more or less intact. At least until Gibson played the flashlight over the SUV—someone had used the side panels for target practice. It looked like it had been flown in from a war zone. He shone the flashlight inside, but the SUV was empty. Something caught his eye, and he opened the driver’s side door. Blood had pooled in and around the seat, shell casings glittering amid the gore. Someone had fought and died in this car. So where was the body? On a hunch, Gibson popped the trunk but found it empty too.
Gibson checked the other vehicles. Most had taken small-arms fire, and he found plenty of blood but still no bodies. Someone had won a decisive battle at the airfield, dumped the cars down the hill, and taken all the bodies. He wondered who had come out on top and had a sinking suspicion that he knew the answer to that one. Emerson looked to have made good on his word.