Around thirty minutes later, the limo let Donny out with a click and a hiss, the door sounding almost like an airlock as it opened. The sun was bright. Fortunately, Donny had thought to bring his sunglasses.

He was in the middle of some kind of airport, out on the tarmac. But there were no airliners. At least, not with the logos on them. And no terminal—just hangars and blocky old one- and two-story buildings. You could hear the whine of the jets, the clanking of metal on metal, and the sound of men yelling.

“Mr. Kimoe!” yelled one voice. Donny looked. It was Lecker’s secretary. He had gone from business casual to combat casual—a flight suit, a sidearm, and a black ball cap with the company logo. He looked fitter than he had before, like an aging wrestler who could still take you down if you pissed him off. He was waving at Donny from across the tarmac, walking in the direction of an executive jet. “Over here!”

Donny headed that way. It was hot out there. As he walked Donny looked around. He saw helicopters being fitted with what looked like the ziplock bags of the gods, secured with frames and filled with some kind of fluid the color of cheap whisky. There was a prop plane, maybe a crop duster, getting some tubular variation of the same thing. There was a big jetliner painted matte black with no identifying insignia other than the call sign on the tail. A fuel truck was there under the wing, while other linemen loaded the luggage compartment with what looked like big metal foot lockers rolling up a mobile conveyor belt. It took two guys to load each locker onto the belt, and even then it looked heavy. Farther back was a big cargo plane, ass end open to make a ramp, up which the crew were driving a bunch of off-road-ready pickups.

“What the hell is this place?” yelled Donny over the engine noise as he met Lecker’s secretary at the bottom of the collapsible stairs that led up into the Dornier-G.

“Carswell Field,” the secretary yelled back. “After you.” He gestured up the ramp to the open door.

Donny took another look around before stepping up. He’d heard of it—Carswell Field was an old air force base that had been one of many sold off to military merchant companies during the Mack administration. It was supposed to be primarily a logistics hub, but you always heard rumors about other stuff.

Inside, the plane looked like a cramped living room, with leather armchairs for seats. Lecker was there on the phone. He signaled Donny to sit down.

The secretary, it turned out, was also the copilot. The pilot, who glanced back as they entered, was a short and stocky blond woman who looked like she was made for kicking ass in low gravity.