Vess was still ranting as Reagan tossed a look toward the passenger seat. The moment Seabass was shot in the face, they were done with the job, done taking orders, done protecting Vess’s business, and certainly done with his current revenge fantasy. From here on in, their only priority was Roddy.
“If it helps, you can track her,” Vess added. “She has my . . . she took my phone and iPad.”
“You mean the phone you’ve been calling us on?” Reagan challenged.
Seabass cocked an eyebrow. Earlier, they’d tossed Zion’s phone to keep anyone from following. Even if she was on their trail, it wouldn’t be hard to lose her again. Snatching the flip phone, Seabass opened the window to toss it outsi— “Don’t,” Reagan warned, grabbing his arm. She took back the phone as a whirlwind of air twisted through the car. Turning back to Vess, she added, “When did she leave your office?”
“Half hour ago, tops.”
Reagan nodded, doing the math. They’d still reach Zig and Roddy first.
“You’re not even listening, are you?” Vess asked. “For thirty years, I’ve been dealing with vengeful pricks. This girl, though . . . She’s different. You can see it in her eyes—she’s got broken parts inside.”
“She sounds unbearable,” Reagan said as Seabass nodded. Neither of them was worried. Like her dad taught, if you wanna hit the cover off a curveball, you just have to know when it’s coming.
Reagan glanced down at the GPS. Fourteen minutes to destination.
Plenty of time to be ready.
85
Now
Zig was confused—and he never liked that.
A few miles back, when he first spotted one of the big green highway signs with a little airplane graphic at the bottom, he didn’t think much of it. On the New Jersey Turnpike, everything connects with the airport sooner or later.
Even when Elijah told him, “Next exit,” and Zig pulled off at 13A—labeled Elizabeth, along with a bigger airplane graphic—Zig focused on the former, assuming this was just the first step to a smaller, less-trafficked area better able to hide a secret government facility. God knows, between the ports, freight yards, and all the surrounding warehouses and refineries, Newark was full of nondescript areas to choose from. Hell, it was big enough to hold the first U.S. IKEA. Yet as the exit ramp looped them into a wider stretch with multiple lanes . . .
“Stay in the middle,” Elijah said, pointing to the lane labeled Airport Traffic Only.
Zig glanced around, searching the distance. The road narrowed and twisted, then narrowed even more, eventually dead-ending at a single-lane service road. In front of them, turnpike shrubbery gave way to a chain-link fence and signs for Terminals A, B, C. Home of Newark International Airport.
“Are we flying somewhere?” Zig asked.
Elijah flashed a grin.
Today, there are eleven undisclosed Strategic National Stockpiles—eleven Grandma’s Pantry warehouses—carefully hidden across the country. In choosing locations, all eleven were logistically situated to maximize their ability to send supplies to the closest neighboring states. Naturally, secrecy was also key. A stockpile in the Northwest was located on a horse-breeding ranch, in a long aluminum-sided building designed to look like a slaughterhouse in satellite photos. The one in the Midwest was hidden in an old jelly bean factory. But all eleven had one thing in common:
They were all near an airport—although only one was located in one.