“Just get us inside,” Zig insisted, which, really, was all Axel was trying to do.
Picking up speed and leaving the mobile mortuary behind, they followed the curve of the lot toward the front of a gray concrete warehouse that had all the charm of a prison. Similar buildings were scattered all across the airport perimeter, with mundane names like M&H International, Swisshaven USA, and Longport Logistics—featureless warehouses dedicated to shipping, exporting, and everything else that goes with the infrastructure of an airport. On a brown awning, the words K&W Importers were so faded, you could barely make them out from the street, which was the point.
“Marlon, I got two,” Axel said into his walkie-talkie.
Zig thought about getting Waggs on the line. He pulled out his phone. No signal. Elijah had warned him as much. As they approached the doorway, Zig spotted two separate black dome security cameras, both with solid steel mounting plates and collars. Same as Dover, military level. But what he noticed most of all was how quiet Elijah suddenly was.
“You see something?” Zig whispered.
Elijah shook his head, glancing at the dents in the old door, the rips in the old awning, the cracks in the building, all of it . . . so many memories. Last time Elijah was here, on that night five years ago, he lost the life he’d had, or at least the life he’d planned for himself. If Zig understood anything, he understood that.
“If you’re armed, there’re gun lockers inside,” Axel added.
There was a low buzz, then a magnetic click as the door popped open.
“I smell rain—it raining out there?” the receptionist, Marlon, called out in a Bronx bellow. Sitting at an L-shaped desk, he was older than Axel, with sandy blond hair, hands that moved like hummingbirds, and a lopsided grin. Heart or no heart? Zig didn’t know why, but he liked him instantly.
“It’s a good evening for a good evening,” Marlon added as the three of them entered.
“This is— Wow, it’s all the same. You didn’t even change the old posters,” Elijah said, glancing around, like some middle-aged alumnus walking into his old dorm. On the walls were faded oversized photos of the Gulf War parade in New York City, as well as one of President Biden placing the Medal of Honor around a soldier’s neck. On their right, a coffee table held a neat pile of Army Times newspapers. In the corner were two sets of gray metal lockers with at least fifty safe-deposit-sized doors, one set marked Phones, the other Guns.
“Marlon, thanks for buzzing us in,” Axel said, not slowing down but adding a wave as he passed the desk. He was headed for the closed metal door dead ahead, and the metal detector protecting it—the true entrance to Grandma’s Pantry. “I already cleared them both.”
“On the V-log?” Marlon asked, sounding confused, turning to the visitor’s log on his computer. His hummingbird hands danced across the keyboard. “I don’t see anyone listed in—”
There was a click.
Zig turned at the sound. It was already too late.
Reaching into his jacket, Elijah had pulled out a gun—a bright nickel-plated and polished HK P7. He racked the slide and chambered a round. “I’m sorry, son, but this is on you,” Elijah said, aiming the pistol at Marlon’s face.
Marlon’s head was still down, his eyes on the computer screen. He never saw it coming.
“Elijah, no!” Axel shouted.
“DON’T—！” Zig added.
There was a thunderclap. Bits of blood and bone hit the wall, causing a spiderweb crack in the framed photo from the Gulf War parade. The way Marlon’s head was bent, the bullet hit a soft spot that fractured the top of his skull in a messy crater. Zig was still yelling as Marlon’s head teetered and wobbled, then slowly sagged forward, momentum taking over, his forehead pounding the keyboard with a sickening thud.