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The Greyhound station was just the other side of Sky Harbor International Airport, which wasn’t far from Picardo’s. Unfortunately, when we reached the station, the parking lot was near capacity.
I pulled up to the passenger drop-off area and turned to Conor. “I’m running in. You find a parking space.” I removed the Glocks and the shoulder rig as well as my Ruger and the Rossi revolver, as weapons were banned inside the bus station.
Conor didn’t look pleased that I was leaving him with the job of finding a parking space, but he didn’t argue, either. By the time he pulled away from the curb, I’d stepped inside the glass doors and surveyed the bustling terminal.
People swarmed in all directions, like ants after someone kicked their nest. Many wore sports jerseys I didn’t recognize. I w
