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“Oh shit!” he blurted.

He stopped and stared at the photograph of the acid-burned teenage girl’s face looking up from inside a blue barrel.

[FOUR]

Love Field Airport, Dallas

Sunday, November 16, 8:55 P.M. Texas Standard Time

The manager of Lone Star Aviation Services—a tall man in his late thirties, with almost a military buzz haircut and dressed in slacks, well-shined brown loafers, knit shirt, and a brown leather A-2 flight jacket—walked with purpose over to the medium-dark-skinned man who stood stiffly, hands on his hips, staring out the bank of windows that overlooked the busy airfield.

Lone Star was a fixed-base operator—an enormous limestone-faced steel building that was the hangar, and a limestone two-story building that served as its corporate offices and lobby reception area, and a concrete pad that could hold fifteen to twenty jet aircraft and two big red fuel trucks—in the northeast corner of the airfield, in the general aviation section. It was separate from the airport’s main terminal building, visible in the distance with orange-bellied 737s lined up at the gates.

“Tango Romeo is on the ground, Mr. Badde,” the manager of Lone Star Aviation Services announced.

H. Rapp Badde, Jr., thirty-two years old, was a city councilman-at-large with a well-earned reputation in his native Philadelphia for being alternately arrogant and charismatic. Somewhat fit—he had a bit of a belly rounding out the fabric of his white silk shirt—Badde stood five-eleven and two hundred pounds. He wore a custom-cut two-piece black suit and his trademark narrow black bow tie. A brand-new roller suitcase, a cheap counterfeit Louis Vuitton, black with pink accents, stood at his feet.

“Tango Romeo?” Badde automatically repeated. “What the hell is that? Sounds like some kind of Roman lover’s Latin dance.”

He flashed his politician’s bright cap-toothed exaggerated smile, his belly shaking as he chuckled at his own wit.

“My apology, sir. I should have said Mr. Antonov’s aircraft has landed.”

“Then what’s Tango Romeo?”

“The aircraft’s identification number is N556TR. In the language of aviation, ‘T’ is said ‘Tango’ and ‘R’ is said ‘Romeo’ for clarity, to avoid confusion in radio communications.”

The look on Badde’s face suggested anything but clarity.

The manager pointed out the window at a Cessna Citation X.

“There it is now,” he said.

The twin-engine jet aircraft was turning off the runway onto the taxiway. On the side of the engine that was visible Badde saw: N556TR.

The aircraft’s paint scheme featured a pair of undulating bright red ribbons. They ran along its gleaming white fuselage, ending on the T-tail, which had two bright red dice, the face of each showing two rows of three white pips.

“Railcars,” Badde automatically said aloud to himself.

He had been more or less studying the various games of gambling since becoming involved with the ongoing development of the new Lucky Stars casino, and was quietly impressed with himself for remembering.

“Excuse me, Mr. Badde?”

“Those dots on the dice,” he then said loudly, with authority, “those are called railcars when there’s twelve of them.”

The manager hesitated before replying, “If I’m not mistaken, I believe, sir, that it’s boxcars.”

Badde turned his head in thought, then said, “That’s what I said. Boxcars.”

“Of course. My mistake.”

“Wonder if there’s any significance to their being boxcars?” Badde went on. “It’s not a train, it’s a plane. Guess it probably just looks good.”

The manager didn’t reply.

“What kind of plane is that?” Badde then said. “One of those Boeings?”

“Boeings are much bigger, sir.” He pointed toward the 737s at the main terminal gates. “Those are Boeing airliners.”