Page 9 of Jude

JUDE

The wheels of the commercial jet hit the tarmac with a dull thud, as the roar of reverse thrusters thrummed through the cabin.

Dawn was just a thin smear of orange over the Burlington runway as I disembarked a few minutes later.

I slung my canvas duffel bag over one shoulder, my brass-embossed Martin leather guitar case over the other, the strap pressing into the ink on my neck.

I was heading toward the glass doors of the baggage claim when a flurry of agitated voices at the Delta ticketing counter caught my attention.

A blonde-haired airline agent was leaning over her terminal.

Her mouth was set in a hard line as she brandished what seemed to be a credit card in the face of a dark-haired younger woman in front of her.

My feet slowed.

Six years in the military had honed my spidey senses to a T.

Heck, I’d become famous for my exceptional ability to identify IEDs before they blew, before the conscious mind even processed the danger.

I was always somehow able to detect when something was wrong, out of place, not quite right, and about to go off.

Now, all my senses were on fire, and I braced, on alert.

The slim, younger woman in the firing line was alone.

From this distance, I could tell she was slim yet had the right curves.

She wore faded jeans, a thin cotton tee, a battered denim jacket, and scuffed leather boots.

She clutched a single worn canvas tote backpack and wrung her hands in agitation.

She also glanced around her in a panic, and I slowed to a stop, moving to the side to let the other passengers behind me pass.

‘Ma’am, you want to purchase two one-way tickets to New York?’ the agent growled, her irritated voice carrying across the tiled floor. ‘Where did you get this card? Did you steal it?’

‘No, I didn’t,’ the younger woman said, her accented voice soft and musical, pleading. ‘I -.’

Her words died in her throat.

She scanned the terminal again as if searching for someone, the panic in her eyes palpable.

I moved towards the pair, not sure how I could help, yet driven by instinct.

The ticketing woman gave the younger woman a rake of her eyes, scanning her, judging her.

‘Sorry, ma’am, you don’t look like you have access to any credit card, let alone this one,’ the agent snipped with some malice as her hand reached for her desk phone. ‘Stay here while I reach the Airport Bureau. There’s something fishy about this.’

The young woman panicked.

She snatched the card from the ticket lady and bolted from the counter, her boots skidding.

With my guitar on my back and my duffel bag, I had no chance to move out of her way; she was racing so fast she scarcely registered the six-foot-three barrier in her path.

She slammed into my chest and rebounded, losing her footing and dropping straight to her knees on the hard floor.

I placed my gear with care on the ground, hooked my hands under her arms, and hoisted her back to her feet, holding her close to me as she stumbled.

‘Hey, you OK?’