The Thomas Blume Series

Chapter 2

Chapter Two

This early in the morning, I didn’t have to fight my way through much of a crowd to reach the baggage carousel. I grabbed my suitcase and joined it with the carry-on strapped over my shoulder.

As with just about any airport on the planet, an anticipated few minutes to the exit turned out to be much more. After a while, unable to ignore the enticing aroma of pizza, I ended up dropping six dollars for a slice that looked and felt like cardboard. I ate it in a few quick bites and then claustrophobia started to push in at the edges. Although the waiting streets would be no more open, I needed to get out of the airport, to be outside and officially starting my self-imposed, self-designed crusade.

A minute later, as I passed a Thai restaurant and a bookstore and wondered how many varieties of different cuisines people thought they needed in a single airport to be happy, two security guards appeared out of a small door to the left. Mouths shut, gazes set dead ahead, they walked in lockstep, side by side. Something was happening, or about to happen. A few paces closer to the exit, I became sure they were following me. Either that or the booze was making me paranoid.

I needed to keep it together.

No. No faulting my judgment this time. The two security goons were doing their best not to make it obvious, but there was no mistaking it—they were tailing me. To make certain, I stopped by a small Apple kiosk, pretending to look at the shiny gadgets I couldn’t afford. I watched them in the reflection of the glass case along the top of the display. They walked further on along the other side of the corridor and stopped. They stood side by side, still not talking, keeping me in view.

I left the kiosk and within a few steps, the exit loomed up ahead. But as I shifted to the right, as though intending to head towards a Mexican restaurant, the two guards did the same. Up ahead, a group of people milled around taking pictures—a large family traveling on vacation, I assumed.

I started in their direction, and despite the rudeness, I cut straight through them, earning a few curses and quickened my pace. When I made it through the other side of their impromptu photo session, I glanced back. My actions had caused the guards to misstep. They spotted me as I resumed a regular walking pace, but they were still on the other side of the annoyed family.

Smiling, I stepped into the flow of foot traffic like any other person in the airport. I hurried to the exit and finally made it outside. Beyond the cool, calm environment of the air-conditioned terminal, I was hit by the familiar assault on the senses that typified New York City. Taxis and buses churned by, horns blared, and marshals blew their whistles—ushering the ubiquitous yellow cabs back and forth. People of all shapes and sizes swarmed the sidewalks while the howl of a police siren echoed in the distance.

The summer heat stifled and smothered. Even this early in the day, it was building, mixing with the exhaust fumes like a sticky blanket, covering everything it touched. To any outsider, it would have been overwhelming, but to me, it felt like home.

I didn’t have time for nostalgia, though. Instead, I tried to blend in with the cabs and shuttle buses, and the throngs of people coming and going.

A quick glance over my shoulder. No sign of the two guards.

I hurried to the far end of the airport sidewalk, content to catch one of the rattier-looking cabs likely to be overlooked by pickier travelers. I didn’t bother looking behind me for the guards again. Being outside in the open made me realize how foolish I’d been. In New York no more than fifteen minutes, what could I possibly have done to attract the attention of airport security?

Paranoia is a terrible thing.

I smiled at my idiocy and shook my head. Damned fool. The city had already gotten to me, affected my reason. I needed to man up. Much more of this and I’d end up a babbling mess.

Then I saw them. Two cops appeared up ahead. No more than ten feet away, moving straight in my direction. One of them looked directly at me and spoke into the shoulder-mic on his uniform.

Shit.

Sweat beaded on my forehead. Had someone from London—perhaps someone I had crossed and not even known it—made a call to the NYPD? Hell, I’d put away enough scumbags in this city as a detective that there would be no shortage of locals wanting a shot at me either.

“Mr. Blume?” the lead officer said as they closed the distance between us. He was in his fifties, tall with gray hair and a thin build. His partner was shorter and overweight but around the same age. They reminded me of some kind of double act past their prime—an aged version of Stan Laurel and Oliver Hardy.

“Yeah?”

“How was your flight?”

“Fantastic,” I said sarcastically, knowing he was stalling for something. Hell if I knew what it was, though.

“Good,” ‘Stan’ said. He peered over my shoulder with recognition in his eyes. I turned to look behind me. The two guards that had been following me in the airport waved. The second officer, ‘Oliver’ waved back and added a nod.

Not so paranoid after all.

“Mr. Blume, I’m going to need you to step into the vehicle, please,” Stan said, his hand dropping to his hip…and resting on his firearm.

He had caught me so off guard, I hadn’t even noticed the Ford van parked along the curb directly beside me. Black, all the windows darkened out, it sat ominously looming over us.

“What’s this about?” I asked.

The two cops and the pair of security guards had now created a box around me. Even if I were interested in making a scene—which I wasn’t—there was no way I’d get away from them. The only thing to do was to just go along with it.

“Please just come along with us,” Oliver said.

I shrugged, my stomach churned and I nearly threw up the pizza. As he opened the sliding door along the side of the van, I tried going back through my mind and looking for anyone in New York that had a beef with me.

Were these guys being paid off?

This was an impossible situation, and I knew that any scenarios I came up with would likely be wrong. So I stopped trying and simply stepped into the van, waiting to see what surprises my old stomping grounds had in store. I clenched my fists as I got in, prepared to fight if I needed to.

As the Ford pulled away from the curb and we hit the overpass, the clawing skyscrapers of Manhattan appeared. I eyed the skyline and recalled the past I had worked so hard to leave behind.

Welcome home, Tom.