“Five!”

Security guards rushed through the terminal toward the screaming. Someone was being murdered in the men’s room and they were responsible. They burst into the rest room with guns drawn. Jake Skye was coiling up some tubing by the sinks. There was whimpering coming from one of the stalls. “Everything’s fine, officers,” Jake said. “My friend’s a little upset. He just found out that his mother died.”

“My mother’s not dead!” Tucker said from the stall.

“He’s in denial,” Jake whispered to the guards. “Here, you better takes this.” He handed the tubing to one of the guards. “We don’t want him hanging himself in grief.”

Ten minutes later, after condolences from the security staff, they sat in the departure lounge drinking gin and tonics, waiting for Tuck’s boarding call. Around them, a score of men and women in suits fired out phone calls on cell phones while twenty more performed an impromptu dog pile at the bar, trying to occupy the minuscule smoking area. Jake Skye was cataloging the contents of the pack he’d given to Tuck. Tucker wasn’t listening. He was overwhelmed with the speed with which his life had gone to shit, and he was desperately trying to sort it out. Jake’s voice was lost like kazoo sounds in a wind tunnel.

Jake droned, “The stove will run on anything: diesel, jet fuel, gasoline, even vodka. There’s a mask, fins, and snorkel, and a couple of waterproof flashlights.”

The job with Mary Jean had been perfect. A different city every few days, nice hotels, an expense account, and literally thousands of earnest Mary Jean ladies to indulge him. And they did, one or two at each convention. Inspired by Mary Jean’s speeches on self-determination, motivation, and how they too could be a winner, they sought Tucker out to have their one adventurous affair with a jet pilot. And because no matter how many times it happened, he was always somewhat surprised by their advances, Tucker played a part.