Midnight Sun (8 page)

When
he
opened
the
passenger
door,
a
wave
of
heat
assaulted
them
as
if
he
’
d
opened
an
oven.

"Hold
on
a
second,
baby,"
Marcus
said. “Let
some
of
the
heat
out
before
you
get
in."

Lonnie
waited
as
Marcus
crossed
to
the
driver
’
s
side
and
opened
his
door.
A draft
blew
through
the
interior
of
the
truck, and she
smiled
as
the
air
brushed
across
her
face.
He
jogged
back
around
and
helped
her
up
as
she
grasped
the
handle
above
the
seat
inside
and
climbed
into
the
cab.
 
She
stretched
the
seatbelt
around
her
belly
as
Marcus
returned
to
his
side.

Lonnie
watched
him
settle
into
his
own
seat.
"You're
kinda
cute,
you
know,"
she
said.
"Wanna
breed
with
me?
”

“
Uh,
”
he
said,
“
looks
like
we
’
ve
already
done
that.
”

“
Well . . .”
H
er
voice
came
in
a
flirtatious
lilt.
“
I
don
’
t
have
to
worry
about
getting
pregnant
then,
do
I?
”

He
grinned
and
shook
his
head
as
he
started
the
truck.
They
drove
across
Anchorage
to
Ted
Stevens
International
Airport.
Marcus
found
an
open
stall
in
the
parking
garage
big
enough
for
his
truck
and
slipped
into
the
space.
They
walked
into
the
building
and
rode
the
escalator
to
the
passenger
receiving
area.
According
to
the
bank
of
flat-panel
monitors
on
the
wall,
flight
142
from
Chicago
had
arrived
five
minutes
earlier.

They
waited
at
the
point
above the escalators
where
all
the
passengers
from
the
major
airlines
exit. A
crowd
of
tired-looking
travelers
appeared
in
the
distance
at
the
end
of
the
long
concourse
on
the
other
side
of
the
TSA
gate. Many
walked
with
zombie-like
expressions
after
the
twelve-hour-plus
flights
that
had
carried
them
to
Alaska.
Marcus
hadn't
seen
his
friend
in
more
than
fifteen
years
and
wasn't
sure
if
he'd
even be able to recognize him
.
He
scanned
the
sea
of
people
that
moved
past,
but
saw
no
one
familiar.
Then
a
face
popped
briefly
into
view
and
caught
Marcus
’
s
attention.
The
forty-something
man
was
tall
and
handsome,
with
tanned
skin
and
light
brown
hair
peppered
with
enough
strands
of
white
to
give
him
a
professorial
look,
or
that
of
a
retired
Special Forces
operative.
Steel-gray
eyes
peered
from
above
a
slightly
crooked
nose.
His
left
cheek
was
scarred
with
the one identifier that confirmed his friend without a doubt—the
L-shaped
knot
of
puckered
flesh
put
there
when the man was captured and tortured
by
a
Somali
warlord
in
'93.

Mike
Farris
saw
Marcus
a
moment
later.
He
smiled
and
put
his
hand
on
the
elbow
of
a
stunning
auburn-haired
woman
next
to
him.
Mike
said
something
to
the
woman,
then
they
strode
through
the
gate,
the wheels of their
carry-on
bags
clacking
rhythmically
over
the
seams
of
the
tiled
floor.