Day Fifty-Seven

Day 57: 27 Sep 2010

Whoever said "crime doesn't pay" never took a very close look at the West Coast Syndicate's bank accounts.

When assignments take me out of town, as they often do, my bosses send me in a Gulfstream G550 plane. It's one of four they own. It's a hell of a lot faster than driving, and I wouldn't pass for normal in an airport security line.

The pilot met me at SEATAC. I'd called him from the car (well, I'd had the driver, Phil, call -- my voice tends to freak people out) and told him our destination. We were headed for Las Vegas.

The pilot didn't dare argue my choices. He had once, back when the slug was fully in control. It had cost him a broken hand and a ruptured eardrum, but he never questioned our destinations again. He made the arrangements. We had a man in the FAA, so our flight plan was rubber-stamped immediately.

I guessed Travis would drive to Las Vegas, not fly. His slug would convince him that, until he was at his destination, it would be best to attract as little attention as possible. He had plenty of cash from Mr. William's wallet, plus several credit cards, so gas wouldn't be a problem.

Neither would sleep. He'd be able to drive straight through, stopping only to fill his vehicle's tank. I'd get to Vegas first, but only by a day or so. I knew I would need more time than that.

So, before going to the airport, I set up few roadblocks for my brother and his slug. Some anonymous emails to the Russians and Chinese let them know he was driving from Vancouver to Las Vegas in a black Escalade.

They couldn't stop him, but they'd try -- especially the Chinese. They didn't yet want to believe they'd lost their great prize.

I knew these diversions meant a lot of people would die, and I wasn't happy about that. . . but my slug certainly was.