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Deke and I hit Detroit Metro Airport in time to drop the body armor at a freight terminal, labeled “martial arts protective gear” to give the security flunkies an excuse to ignore it, and scurry to McNamara Terminal. While we’re waiting for TSA inspection, I text Mall with the Roadbeast’s location and photo so he can pillage the explosives, ammo, and assorted equipment from its trunk before some i***t kid finds it.
It’s a public service, really.
We board so late the flight attendants give us a welcome with a side of Death Glare. The cabin door almost flattens me as it closes.
Getting a last-minute transatlantic flight isn’t hard, so long as you have gobs of money to shovel at the problem and you don’t care where you sit. I couldn’t get two seats together, no matter which class of ti
