McKinney zipped up a red Gore-Tex coat and matching knit cap emblazoned with a white company logo in bold letters: Ancile Services. She had no idea what it was or why everyone else was now wearing similar coats—though theirs were in black.
Other team members shuffled past her carrying duffels and backpacks. The woman, Ripper, nodded as she passed by. Her long black hair flowed freely now, with multiple ear piercings visible. Very much American. That had been a swift transformation.
Hoov and Mooch ducked by, opening the jet’s cargo hatch. Tin Man and Ripper seemed to be heading toward the nearby hangar.
Foxy patted McKinney on the shoulder and shouted over the jet roar as he passed by. “Coming?”
“Where to?”
He motioned with two gloved fingers toward the hangar, and McKinney fell in line behind him. It was shocking how completely American he looked now in a company coat and hipster eyeglasses. He had the African kora slung over his back, but it looked more like a goofy souvenir in this context. As they got farther from the plane’s engine noise, she asked, “Where are we?”
He cast a glance back at her. “Kansas City.”
“My passport. All my identification was destroyed in—”
“That’s not a problem, Professor.”
“What is this, a military base?”
“Private jetport.”
Ahead, Tin Man was turning a key in a lock near the main hangar door. The large doors opened a few feet, and the team moved quickly inside. Fluorescent lights were already flickering on, revealing two white panel vans in a cavernous empty space.
Foxy ushered McKinney inside the hangar and gave several quick hand signals to Hoov and Mooch. They were rolling equipment cases in from the jet, which was already taxiing away down the tarmac.
What followed was a frenzy of wordless activity as the team pulled the cases inside and started popping latches. Hoov put batteries in a disposable cell phone. After a moment he tapped in a number and spoke quickly as he peered through the narrow opening in the hangar doors. “We just got in. What’s overhead?”
McKinney watched the others pulling electronic gear out of the cases. One of the devices looked like a standard metal detection wand—like something you’d search for land mines with. Other gear included what looked like an oscilloscope. They were installing batteries and powering up without saying a word to each other. Moments later Ripper had donned a headset and was waving the boom of the device along the sides of the nearest van.
McKinney met Foxy’s gaze.
He nodded toward Ripper and Tin Man—who were doing a similar sweep on the second van. “Nonlinear junction detector. Finds uninvited guests.”
“You really think they could have tracked us all this way?”
“Standard procedure, Professor. We always watch our backs.” Foxy pointed straight up. “We need to sanitize the airspace before we move to base.”
Hoov walked up, still clutching the phone. “There’s a Predator orbiting forty-three clicks southeast of here. NORAD says it’s U.S. Customs and Border Protection, but Troll’s not sure. There’s also a DEA flight out of Wichita fifty clicks to the east, but it could be scanning frequencies.”
“Spy sats?”
“Nothing overhead for another nineteen minutes.”
Ripper pulled off her headset and moved away from the vans. “Vans are clean.”
Foxy nodded and tapped McKinney on the shoulder. “You’re with me, Professor.”
She followed Foxy toward the first van as Tin Man tossed him the keys. “Meet you back at the office. Take the long way home.”
“Wilco. Keep your eyes peeled.”
Foxy got in the van and McKinney uncertainly climbed in on the passenger side. The vehicle smelled brand-new. Foxy stowed the kora and his canvas satchel behind his seat and started the van. “Buckle up, Professor, this isn’t Africa.”
“Oh.” She buckled her seat belt.
Nearby, Tin Man opened the rear hangar doors on the far side of the space. He ducked his head out the opening, then gave a thumbs-up sign.
Foxy drove through the doors out into the deserted parking lot and toward the front entrance to the small airport.
McKinney had been under the impression that American airports had more security than this, but apparently private jet terminals did things differently. There was only an unmanned parking gate between them and the tarmac. It made her wonder about the security she endured in major airports.
Foxy drove them past an obvious highway entrance ramp marked Rt. 169/Downtown Kansas City, and instead drove through a narrow tunnel beneath the highway, to emerge on the other side amid gritty, deserted industrial streets.
McKinney had never been to Kansas City before. She scanned the dark horizon, searching for the inevitable downtown of lofty bank towers, but all she could see were security lights on warehouses and factories along with the occasional billboard—the generic Americanness she remembered. The van’s dashboard clock read 1:23 A.M. There was almost no traffic on the surface roads. The light industrial businesses, retail outlets, warehouses, and junkyards to either side were fenced and graffiti tagged, but it looked more orderly than any East African city.