Printed with an address in Little China, New York.
“From Skippy’s pocket?”
She rolls her eyes hard enough I hear it.
“Yeah. The only thing he had on him.”
I pat the corpse’s shoulder. “You’re more useful than you look, amigo.”
Saint kicks me lightly in the shin.
That’s her way of sayingfocus.
A warehouse bay door grinds open across the yard, spilling yellow light onto the pavement. A forklift buzzes past. The workers don’t look back.
“Now,” she whispers.
We cut through the fence—her little pocket tool does the job in a few clean clips—and slip across the open ground in the forklift’s wake. Inside the warehouse, no one notices us. Too many crates. Too little supervision. Too much noise.
A bulletin board near the office doorway holds stacks of documents and several clipboards. Saint taps one with her finger.
Flight manifests, cargo loads, destinations, and times.
And there it is.
A cargo jet departing directly to JFK International.
Last cargo load already signed off.
We exchange a look, and she nods once.
Outside, through the warehouse’s high windows, I spot the plane sitting on the tarmac—its bay doors open, last crates strapped in. A group of workers loiter by a fuel truck for a smoke break, backs turned. No one is watching.
“Go,” she says.
We sprint across the tarmac—me with Skippy bouncingon my shoulders like some morbid backpack—and slide up the cargo ramp just as the workers start arguing about whose turn it is to buy cigarettes.
Inside, the compartment is cavernous, dim, and humming with the low vibration of running engines. We duck behind a tall stack of produce crates, squeezing into the narrow pocket of space between pallets and the wall.
Saint settles in first, guns secured, jaw clenched in concentration.
I wedge myself beside her, Skippy propped in the corner like he’s supervising.
The cargo door begins to close, and the lights dim.
The engines rise to a hungry roar and Saint exhales once.
We’re in.
On a plane to New York with no seats and one dead man dressed like he’s ready for a tax audit.
I look sideways at Saint.
“Romantic, no?”
She elbows me in the ribs, but it was worth it.
The moment the plane levels off—engines roaring loud enough to rattle bones—Saint moves like she’s allergic to staying still.
