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Back We Were Killers Once Save as PDF
Chapters (65)
  1. Title Page
  2. Copyright Notice
  3. Dedication
  4. One
  5. Two
  6. Three
  7. Four
  8. Five
  9. Six
  10. Seven
  11. Eight
  12. Nine
  13. Ten
  14. Eleven
  15. Twelve
  16. Thirteen
  17. Fourteen
  18. Fifteen
  19. Sixteen
  20. Seventeen
  21. Eighteen
  22. Nineteen
  23. Twenty
  24. Twenty–one
  25. Twenty–two
  26. Twenty–three
  27. Twenty–four
  28. Twenty–five
  29. Twenty–six
  30. Twenty–seven
  31. Twenty–eight
  32. Twenty–nine
  33. Thirty
  34. Thirty–one
  35. Thirty–two
  36. Thirty–three
  37. Thirty–four
  38. Thirty–five
  39. Thirty–six
  40. Thirty–seven
  41. Thirty–eight
  42. Thirty–nine
  43. Forty
  44. Forty–one
  45. Forty–two
  46. Forty–three
  47. Forty–four
  48. Forty–five
  49. Forty–six
  50. Forty–seven
  51. Forty–eight
  52. Forty–nine
  53. Fifty
  54. Fifty–one
  55. Fifty–two
  56. Fifty–three
  57. Fifty–four
  58. Fifty–five
  59. Fifty–six
  60. Fifty–seven
  61. Author’s Note
  62. Acknowledgments
  63. Also by Becky Masterman
  64. About the Author
  65. Newsletter Sign-up

“What about an air marshal? That’s whose seat I took from Tampa.”

He checked and said, “Sorry, not on this flight. Besides, even if there was a seat open, they’re closing the doors. You can’t make it.”

“You make me make it,” I said.

He glanced at my face and picked up the phone. “Hold flight number 6571,” he said. “I have someone boarding.” He listened. “Yes, I know the flight is full. Can you get the airline to bump someone?” He listened. “What about a steward to deplane without rousing suspicion so our person can take their seat?”

He glanced up at me and shook his head, beginning to feel my frustration.

“You have to get to D concourse,” he said. “Skylink—”

“Fuck Skylink. Get me a cart now,” I said.

He placed another call, then at my direction typed a few words on a piece of computer printer paper and printed it. Within a few seconds of that, a security cart pulled up outside the office door. I got into the front seat beside the driver, and over her objection pressed the warning button the whole way from the B concourse.

I leaned forward and felt my body trying to increase the forward momentum as we wove through the crowds, the driver saying a loud ’scuse-me when a traveling zombie blocked the way. About halfway there we both spotted ahead of the cart a stooped woman with a walker who tried to wave us to a stop.

“No,” I said. “She could have got a wheelchair assist.”

The driver looked at me mournfully.

“Oh goddamit, all right, stop.” As we pulled up I grabbed the woman’s walker and threw it on the cart. I threw the woman after it.

“I’m going to C27,” she said.

“Yeah, ultimately,” I told her, and to the driver, “No more.”

Then we arrived. Without thanks I got off at the gate marked TUCSON. DEPARTED, with my tote slung over my shoulder, nodded to the gate attendant who had been notified of my coming, and entered the jetway. I felt the air sucked out as the door closed behind me. I boarded the craft. The forward steward was on the phone and glanced at me. As I walked down the aisle a few people looked up the way they do when a last person boards a plane alone. I’m sure most of them forgot my face by the time I made it aft, and only figured I was a standby and looked at their watches with the hope I hadn’t put the flight off schedule.