Free Gideon's Sword by Douglas Preston Page B

took a stick.
    “Let’s see your hack license,” said the thin one, waving away the gum and shooting an annoyed glance at his partner.
    Gideon slipped out the license he had “rented” along with the limo—at significant expense—and handed it over. The thin cop snatched it, stared, passed it to the other. The fat one pursed his lips, looking it over intently. Gideon folded the stick of gum into his mouth, chewed meditatively.
    “You know you can’t stop here,” said the thin cop, his voice high. “I’m giving you a ticket, and then you better get over to where you belong.” He flipped open the book and began to write.
    “Don’t do that,” said Gideon. “Tickets make me break out in hives.”
    The officer scoffed.
    “Guess you didn’t get the message,” said Gideon, with a shrug.
    “Message?”
    He smirked. “About who I’m meeting.”
    “I don’t give a rat’s ass who you’re meeting. You can’t stop here. No exceptions.” But the pen had halted. The fat one was still perusing the hack license, wet lips pursed in concentration.
    Gideon waited.
    “So who are you meeting?” the thin one finally asked.
    Gideon’s grin broadened. “You know I can’t tell you that.” He checked his watch. “His plane’s arriving now. From the Far East. He’ll get the VIP treatment at customs, breeze right through and be expecting me. Inside. Not out here, on the curb, arguing with a couple of flat—I mean, security officers.”
    Gorski handed him back the license. “License and stickers seem to be in order,” he said to no one in particular.
    “We never got a Security or VIP arrival notice,” said the thin one. His tone was now several notches less confrontational. “I’m sorry, but the rules are the rules.”
    Gideon rolled his eyes. “Nice. So you guys know nothing. No skin off my back. On second thought, go ahead and write the ticket. I’ll need it for my memo.” He shook his head sadly and started to get back in the limo.
    The thin cop stared at Gideon, eyes narrowed. “If this is a security VIP arrival, we should’ve been told. Who is he, some politician?”
    Gideon paused at the open door. “Let’s just say he’s one of your own. The Jefe. A man known to be just a tad irritable when there’s a fuckup.”
    The two cops looked at each other. “You talking about the commissioner?”
    “You didn’t hear it from me.”
    “We should’ve gotten a VIP notification,” said Gorski, now in full whine.
    Gideon decided it was time to get tough. He let the good-humored look fall from his face and glanced at his watch. “I guess I need to spell it out for you. It’s a simple story, easy to follow. If I don’t meet the Man at the bottom of the escalators in one fucking minute, the loose diarrhea is gonna hit the fan. And you know what I’m going to do about that? I’m going to write a memo that says I got shortstopped by two dumbass TSA cops who forgot to check their inbox for a VIP notification.” He pulled a notebook and pen from his pocket. “How do you spell your name, Gorski?”
    “Um…” Gorski looked over at the other cop, unsure what to do.
    Gideon turned to the thin one. “How about you? You want to be in the memo, too? What’s your name? Abbott?”
    He gave them both a withering stare, first one, then the other.
    They caved immediately. “We’ll keep an eye on your limo,” said the thin cop, nervously smoothing the front of his uniform. “You go ahead and meet him.”
    “Right,” said Gorski. “No problem. We’ll be right here.”
    “Good move. Why don’t you practice the ‘Who’s on First’ routine while you wait? I love that one.” Gideon brushed past them and walked briskly through the doors into the vast baggage claim area. Luggage carousels rumbled and creaked on both sides. In front stretched a double pair of escalators, people streaming down. Gideon joined the small group of fellow limo drivers waiting at the bottom of the escalators, each holding up a