Free War Lord by David Rollins Page A

particular hurry, and headed for the Ford Explorer with the FAA decal. The guy smiled at Alabama; the woman gave her a frown. Nothing unusual in Alabama’s universe, I figured.
    On the other side of those gold doors the temperature dropped into the low twenties. We stepped into a waiting room that took up half the width of the building, a white Laminex reception desk at one end occupied by a large older woman with brassy hair, and down the other end a frosted glass wall with a door. Behind the woman hung framed photos of executive jets like the ones outside, the pilots visible in their cockpit windows. There was a leather couch to sit on and a low coffee table in front of it scattered with assorted financial and aircraft magazines and newspapers. A coffee machine and a water cooler stood in one corner, and a slot machine held down the one opposite; SLEEPING BEAUTY said the colorful lettering on it. Now that I thought about it, there was a musical hum in the air, sprinkled with what I supposed were meant to be magical bells, the same sound I’d heard dominating the reception foyer at Bally’s. A pictorial showed Sleeping Beauty herself comatose on a bed, Prince Charming coming through the window behind her. From the looks of it, Ms Beauty was in for either some morning glory or a rude awakening, depending on how she felt about strangers in her bedroom. The slot took quarters for a chance at winning a cool hundred-thousand-dollar jackpot. I had some change in my pocket – maybe later, on our way out.
    The receptionist peeked at us over bifocals, her eyes small in the expanse of heavily made-up flesh around them, like marbles pushed into dough. Chubby gold-ringed fingers paused over a keyboard. She touched a mole on her cheek like it was a button that would switch on recognition, but doing so failed to help her penetrate Alabama’s cunning disguise of sunglasses and ball cap. ‘Can I help you folks at all?’
    ‘Special Agent Vin Cooper, here to see Ty Morrow,’ I said, placing the bag and esky down and my card on her desk, the gold leaf on the embossed OSI agent badge a nice match for the windows. ‘And this is Randy Sweetwater’s partner,’ I said.
    ‘Oh, Alabama ! Is that you, honey? I didn’t recognize you with those glasses on.’
    Why did I ever doubt how Clark Kent got away with it?
    ‘Hello, Carol,’ said Alabama, taking off the sunglasses, revealing red eyes above deep black, sleep-deprived shadows.
    ‘Oh, you poor thing,’ said Carol. ‘Can I get you something, honey? A cup of coffee? Water?’
    ‘No thanks, really . . .’
    ‘Well, whatever you need, just ask. Mr Morrow is busy with some folks. Shouldn’t be long now.’
    Carol seemed uncomfortable. I wondered whether it was because we chose to remain standing or the fact that neither Alabama nor I appeared at all interested in playing slots. Whatever, after a few moments she got up, went to the door in the frosted glass wall, opened it and popped her head around the corner. I heard her murmur something in a low voice before turning and informing us that Ty would just be a minute.
    Less than a minute later, dark shapes appeared in the frosted glass and the door swung open. Two men in suits that were coffee-stain brown came out. NTSB, I figured, given the authorities Morrow said he’d notified. They turned and said words like ‘thanks’ and ‘we’ll be in touch’ to a short guy in his late fifties wearing polished black shoes, navy-blue suit pants, a pale blue shirt and pink striped tie, loosened at the collar. Had to be Ty Morrow. He looked well kept, like he rolled in money on a regular basis. His tan face glowed with a laser-burnished gloss, and his shaped and dyed black eyebrows sat above light gray eyes that matched the professionally layered silver hair swept back behind his ears. The guy had country club written all over him. But, like they say – mustn’t judge.
    ‘Alabama,’ he said, putting an arm around her shoulder. ‘I’m