“I take it there’s supposed to be an airplane in here?” Franny finally said. Baba Yaga just spun on her heel and walked back to the van. “Not very big on conversation, is she?” Franny said to Stache, who had seemingly run out of cuss words.

Before she reached the van the old woman staggered. Franny crossed the distance between them in time to keep her from hitting the oil-stained concrete. Small as she was it still hurt his shoulder and his side and he gave a hiss of pain. As for Baba Yaga her eyes were half lidded and she was very pale.

“Always the hero, eh,” she rasped out.

“Let’s settle for gentleman. My mom raised me right.”

Looking worried, Stache joined them. There was another hurried conversation. Since Franny couldn’t either understand or join in he decided to investigate the lockers. Maybe somebody kept a change of street clothes. Running around in an ill-fitting tuxedo was going to draw attention. They were locked, but the locks looked flimsy so he took a wrench off the worktable and using his good arm bashed them loose.

“What are you doing?” Baba Yaga called.

“Looking for something a little less conspicuous. I’m tired of running around like an action hero in a spy novel.”

Her eyes raked him up and down. “Don’t flatter yourself,” was the dry response.

“Guess your mother didn’t raise you right.” He pulled open the doors, and got lucky. There were some clothes in one of the lockers. “Didn’t she ever teach you the Thumper rule?”

“What is the Thumper rule?”

“If you can’t say anything nice don’t say anything at all.”

“Stupid rule.”

For some reason the exchange amused him. Franny stifled a smile. “So, what’s the plan now?”

The old woman seemed to have exhausted the number of words she would allot to Franny and she didn’t answer. Instead she climbed into the backseat of the van. Stache leaned in the door, and there was another quick, incomprehensible conversation.

An imperious wave brought Franny to her side. “Go to the terminal. Investigate the situation. And no, I can’t send him.” She nodded at Stache. “He is known to work for me.”

Franny wasn’t actually going to argue because it meant he could get away from Baba Yaga and he was at an international airport—a fact he found rather surprising, but was happy to roll with it. Moving to the front of the van he changed out of the purloined tux and into the jeans. The jeans were too short and the shirt was a no-go, it was way too small, which forced him to stay in the dress shirt, which sported a bloodstain. To hide the stain Franny slipped back on the tux jacket. Unlike the slacks with their formal stripe it didn’t just scream tux but he was sure not making a sartorial statement.

He headed off across the tarmac toward the terminal. The air reeked of jet fuel and the sun bounced off the pavement, adding to his throbbing headache. He circled the main terminal building until he found the front doors. There was the usual flow of travelers, uniformed airline personnel, the expected security, and big men in dark suits with suspicious bulges under their arms. They were surveying everyone entering the building. It seemed that Baba Yaga’s criminal competitors had anticipated her move. Still the old lady was right and they didn’t know Franny. He could walk through those doors and—