THE AIRPORT
559 Words
_CHAPTER 6
5:42 AM.
The car was already waiting.
Black. Tinted. Driver holding the door open.
And beside it, coffee in one hand, was Stephen.
Suit. Jacket. Tie perfect.
Like the man from 20 minutes ago in rolled sleeves never existed.
He looked at me.
Jeans. One of the designer hoodies from the suitcases. Passport clutched to my chest.
Sandra must’ve left shoes by my door because my bare feet were gone.
“Get in,” he said.
No “good morning.”
No “how are you.”
I got in.
The leather was cold. The car smelled like his cologne and coffee.
He got in the driver’s seat himself. Waved the driver off with one look.
Silence.
The gates opened. The estate was still dark.
Lagos was waking up. Empty roads. Gray sky.
My phone buzzed. Amanda.
I ignored it.
“You ate?” he asked. Eyes on the road.
The question came out of nowhere.
“Yes,” I lied.
He didn’t answer. Reached into the console and handed me a paper bag.
Toast. Fruit. Water.
“Thank you,” I whispered.
More silence.
Just the engine and the sound of me chewing.
At a red light, he glanced at me.
“You have everything?”
“Passport. Visa. Itinerary.”
“And?”
I looked down. “That’s all I need.”
He hummed. Turned left.
We passed billboards. Street hawkers setting up.
The city looked tired.
“Amanda called me last night,” he said.
My stomach dropped.
“What did she say?”
“That she handled it,” he said, flat. “That the money went to the hospital.”
I closed my eyes. “I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“For lying. For not telling you. For breaking Rule #1.”
The light turned green.
He didn’t look at me. “Don’t apologize for that.”
“Then what?”
“For making me pay twice.”
I flinched. “I didn’t—”
“I know,” he cut me off. “You didn’t.”
The private terminal came into view.
He parked. Killed the engine. Neither of us moved.
“You’ll call when you land,” he said. Not a question.
“I will.”
“You’ll call if there’s a problem.”
“I will.”
“And you’ll come back.”
That one made me look up.
“What?”
“6 months,” he said. “Contract.”
His eyes were dark. Tired.
“You leave. You save your brother. Then you come back.”
I nodded. Couldn’t speak.
He got out first. Opened my door. Took my bag.
We walked in silence to the gate.
At security, he stopped.
Handed me the paper bag.
And a card. Black. No name. Just a number.
“My direct line,” he said. “Not the office.”
I took it. Our fingers brushed.
Cold.
“Assumpta,” he said. First time he used my name.
“Yes?”
“Don’t trust her.”
I nodded.
The line moved.
I turned.
“Wait.”
I stopped.
He reached out and adjusted the strap of my bag on my shoulder.
His hand stayed half a second. Then dropped.
“Go save him,” he said quietly.
Then he turned and walked away.
I didn’t watch him leave.
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