Gary Booker’s Cadillac glided off the freeway at 181st, merging onto Halsey Street with the quiet precision of a man who knew how to vanish. His watch glinted under the predawn glow—7:15 AM. Right on schedule.
The Arco station on the corner wasn’t his usual choice for the Caddy, but today wasn’t about preferences. It was about the plan. He fueled up, tossed in an additive to compensate for the cheap gas, and headed south. By 7:30, he was idling in the WinCo parking lot off 122nd, where the 24/7 buzz of shoppers provided the perfect cover. Fast in, fast out. Ice, snacks, a nondescript cooler—all staged for the next phase.
A pre-arranged Uber arrived moments later. Gary slung a backpack over his shoulder—Layla’s spare clothes inside, just enough to sell the illusion of a hotel guest running errands. Every detail mattered. A couple without luggage? Memorable. A man with a woman’s overnight bag? Invisible.
Twenty-two minutes later, the Uber dropped him at the Radisson. A taxi whisked him to PDX by 8:45, where a commuter ticket to SeaTac (courtesy of John’s generous tab) granted him terminal access. Security breezed by; Concourse C swallowed him whole.
At Gate C5, Gary settled into the rhythm of airport anonymity. People-watching was a habit, a game. The flight attendant strutting past? He imagined the secrets behind her polished smile. Did she wax? Who warmed her bed last night? A harmless distraction—until the mission snapped back into focus.
9:45 AM. Gate C15.
His leg bounced—not nerves, but anticipation. What was John hiding about this girl? He ran the plan again. Flawless.
Then the arrivals board flickered. Her flight had landed.
Time to move.
The stream of passengers parted like fog, and there she was.
Paige Stewart—UNLV T-shirt, 5’8”, 115 pounds of frayed nerves—emerged like a spooked doe. Even battered, her beauty was undeniable. The kind that turned heads in better days.
But today, the stares were for the bruises.
A split eyebrow, swollen shut. A busted lip, purpling cheek. Arms mottled with fingerprints masquerading as shadows. Someone hadn’t just hit her—they’d unmade her. Gary’s gut twisted. John’s bullets were too merciful.
He smothered the rage. Later.
“It’s okay, Paige.” He stepped forward, palms up. “Gary Booker. How was the flight?”
She startled, then relaxed—barely. “You—you’re here. I thought you’d be outside.”
“Didn’t want you navigating alone.” He kept his tone light, but his eyes cataloged her injuries. The hitch in her step. The way she cradled her ribs. Bastards.
They moved toward baggage claim, Paige’s designer slingback heels (Ross or TJ Maxx, he guessed) clicking against the tile. Her hair—honey-brown, sun-kissed—was tangled, but it framed a face that would’ve graced a Maldives ad. Give her two weeks to heal.
“Thank you,” she murmured, eyes down. “I know I look… terrible.”
“You look like someone who survived.” He handed her the backpack. “Our cover? You’re my niece. Surfing accident in California. Short answers only.”
She managed a crooked smile. “Uncle Gary. Got it.”
As they neared the taxi line, he leaned in. “You’re safe now. Anyone comes for you? They go through us first.”
Her nod was small, but it sealed something between them. A promise. A spark.
And with that, they melted into the crowd.
To Be Continued…
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