I flex my jaw as I watch Cassandra walk through the glass doors into the airport.
I want so badly to grab her and haul her back into my truck. But I don’t do that. Instead, I climb behind the wheel.
Cassandra has already disappeared out of view when I merge into the lanes of slowly moving cars leaving after dropping their passengers off.
I follow the traffic out of the departures area.
I keep my speed steady with everyone else.
I stay in the far lane as we all head toward the airport exit.
I flip on my blinker.
I follow the sign directing traffic that wants to return to terminal.
I follow the looping road until I join the cars heading into the airport again.
But instead of taking the lane for departures, I follow the signs for parking.
The ramps are crowded, but I find a spot between two other pickup trucks.
After turning the engine off, I unbuckle, then twist around and press a hidden button behind my seat.
The rear bench seat silently unlocks, and with minimal effort, the whole seat lifts on a hinge to reveal a compartment within.
I drag my nondescript black backpack out, then reach for my folded suit jacket.
I wait until I’m out of the truck to shake out my jacket and put it on.
Black leather boots, dark jeans, gray T-shirt, black suit jacket, and boring black backpack. I look like every other upper management douchebag heading out for a week of sales meetings.
Making it super easy to blend in at the airport.
No one questions me.
No one even looks twice at a man flying with just a backpack. Seasoned travelers have their packing down to a science.
Three changes of clothes.
Minimal toiletries.
A laptop containing four throwing knives.
A passport and airplane ticket for a man whose name isn’t Hans Eklund but who looks just like me. And who has TSA PreCheck, so I, or whoever this man is, don’t even have to take off my shoes to go through security.
Picking my backpack up after its uneventful trip through the X-ray machine, I make a stop in the first shop I see.
Since I purchased my ticket last night, I don’t have much of a game plan for when I get where we’re going. At least, no real plan beyond follow Cassandra.
I grab four bags of beef jerky, a bag of peanuts, bottle of water, two packs of Skittles, and a magazine about cars that will either work as a cover or as a fire starter. Whatever turns out to be more useful.
