Alien Tango

the highway, Screamin’ Steven Tyler and the rest of my boys providing our soundtrack, swerving in and out of traffic. It was eleven on a Friday night—there were still plenty of cars out. We outdistanced the police cars, but the Escalade was still with us, albeit farther back. My hair was out of luck, I could feel it streaming out behind me. Oh, well, the windblown look was in, right?
    There was nothing like scary people trying to kill me to put things right into perspective. Stay alive, worry about relationships later. “I Stole Your Love” by Kiss was on now. Appropriate—I was sure whoever owned this car loved it.
    I wanted to get to a men’s room at Saguaro International. We needed a gate, and we needed one that didn’t have to be calibrated. All bathroom gates recalibrated automatically after any use to the Crash Site Dome, the main gate hub. I couldn’t see a gate to calibrate it, but I knew where one gate was far too well.
    However, I wanted to lose our company, too. There were a few ways to do it, but I was feeling reckless for some reason, so I took the option that was both crazy and would be hard for any big car to manage. I waited until we were by an appropriate on-ramp that had few cars merging onto the freeway. “Hold on.” I spun the wheel and headed down, dodging some cars coming toward us.
    Close to the airport, excellent. Worked my way there off the main streets as much as possible. Went into the airport via the freight entrance. No one was following us anymore, so I slowed down to merely fast.
    “I never want to drive with you again,” Chuckie said.
    “Why not? We lost them, and we’re still alive.”
    “I think I had a heart attack.”
    “Keeps you on your toes.” I drove into the airport proper sedately—not only did the airport have cops, but there wasn’t anyplace much to go to escape said cops. Pulled into the Terminal Three parking garage, found a spot, and parked. Took the keys, just in case.
    We got out and ran for the terminal. We passed the maintenance closet I remembered well. Tried not to look at it. Failed, but kept on moving.
    We hit security, and the problems started. I wasn’t used to going through it anymore. With an A-C, you just went to hyperspeed, and no one was the wiser. But Chuckie wasn’t an A-C.
    He pulled me aside, and we stared at the arrivals screens. “We don’t have boarding passes. This isn’t going to work.”
    I pulled out my cell and dialed. “Girlfriend, where the hell are you?” Reader was shouting.
    “Saguaro International. In a lot of trouble with no time. We can’t get through Security. I need a gate—where’s the closest one in Terminal Three that’s in the general areas?”
    He cursed. “The only one like that’s in the old terminal, Two.” He described where it was.
    “We’re doomed. Okay, hopefully you’ll see us soon.” I jerked my head, and Chuckie and I started off. We were probably better off on foot because we could get back inside if we had to.
    “Who the hell is ‘us’?” Reader asked as Chuckie and I trotted.
    “Chuck Reynolds.”
    There was a pause. “Do you mean Charles Reynolds, the head of the government’s ET Division?” Chuckie was the head of the division? I considered his track record. Of course he was the head of it. Probably had been hired in the mailroom and worked up to top guy in about six months to a year. Freaked or not, being chased by deadly, horrible people or not, I was still proud of him. I’d spent a lot of years being proud of him, after all, and he’d never given me reason to stop.
    “Yes, pretty sure, yes.”
    “What are you doing with him?”
    “Remember my friend, the one who was into UFO stuff, the one I checked with about Club 51 when we were heading to beautiful, deadly Florida?”
    “Conspiracy Chuck? Oh, hell no!”
    “I know everyone. So, anyway, Chuckie’s here, thankfully, since Shannon the Toothless Weasel is out and already tried to kill us. Tell Kevin. Whoever released him is working for Leventhal Reid.”
    “Chuckie?”
    Why was Reader asking? He’d heard me talk about Chuckie a lot over the past few months; if nothing else, he’d heard Martini whine about my still having a special ringtone for Chuckie and given me a pseudo-lecture about it. I decided I wasn’t the only one freaked out and let it pass. “It’s what I call him. Sort of like a pet name.” Why not? Chuckie snorted a laugh, grabbed my free hand, and kept us moving.
    Another pause.