Chapter 3

March 23rd, 2008

Morning light found her on the road again, heading northwest through the desert. The Harley rumbled along, as if it was an old lion, content to be out in the sun. She had kept the engine tuned and in good repair though she let the body of the old bike be. It was better to make people think what you had wasn't worth much. If they thought it nothing but junk they wouldn't bother with it. The paint was dull and faded, scratched and some of the chrome showed signs of rust. But the engine was a work of art as it roared along the curves and twists of the highway.

By 0800, Red had found a small truck stop where she waited for one of the two shower rooms while warming her hands with a cup of coffee. When her number was called to use a shower, she took her duffle bag in with her and locked the door. She tried to avoid looking at anything for too long since it was an old, abused facility and didn't look like it'd had a good scrubbing in years. However, the water was clear and hot as she quickly showered, brushed her teeth, dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt before braiding her hair in a long tail down her back. As she headed back out to the café, several of the men waiting for their turn at the showers raised an eyebrow at how quickly she'd finished.

Settling into a booth, she placed her order for breakfast then pulled out her laptop and booted it up. Rummaging for a special cord, she found it and plugged it into her computer before she hooked it into her phone. The wireless signal was weak but she should be able to search for information while she waited for her food. Within a few minutes, she knew that the number given to her was registered to a Mr. John Cliner, an estate planning lawyer who had been in business since 1973. The address was in Los Angeles, California which corresponded with the area code of the number. Since there was little else on the internet about Mr. Cliner or his business, she shut down her laptop and unhooked her phone.

Once her laptop and gear had been repacked accordingly in her duffle, she waited for the waitress to bring her breakfast. A large plate of eggs, bacon and wheat toast was placed before her a few minutes later and the waitress came back to refill her coffee cup. Once she was alone and knew she wouldn't be interrupted for a few minutes, she opened her cell phone and dialed Mr. Cliner's number. It rang three times before it was picked up.

"Hello?" came an older mans' voice.

"This is Cheyenne MacPhearson. You left me a message. Where and when?" she asked, getting right to the point. This wasn't the place to ask questions and the sooner she had a location and time, the sooner she could plan the next leg of her trip.

The man was quiet for a moment, perhaps surprised by the abruptness of the woman on the other end of the line.

"Thank you for returning my call Ms. MacPhearson. Do you know where Van Nyes Airport is here in Los Angeles?" he asked, trying to sound professional.

"Yes," she answered, though she honestly didn't. She would have to buy a map and look it up.

"How soon could you meet me there?" he asked.

She was silent for a moment as she calculated the time it would take her to reach Los Angeles itself. "I can be there in six hours. Will that be acceptable?"

"Yes. Meet me at the Stars and Stripes Hanger. I will need verification that you are who you say you are. Once I have that verification, I will let you know what this is all about," he said, sounding thankful for once that someone was not asking him questions.

"Fine. I'll be there by 1500 hours today," she said and hung up the phone, probably leaving the man a little startled on the other end.

Pulling out her little notebook, she made a few notes about the conversation before focusing on her breakfast. It was decent fare and filling but best of all, it was hot. She still felt partially frozen from her stay in the desert the night before, even with the hot shower. After a third cup of coffee and finishing most of her meal, she paid the bill and left a tip on the table.

Within a few minutes, she had picked up a road map of California and paid for gas. Securing her duffle on the back of her bike, she quickly consulted the map then headed back out to the highway.

Early afternoon found her less than an hour away from the airport and the roads were congested with traffic. She had added time to her ETA, hoping to get there early enough to look around before the meeting.

As she drew closer to the airport, the skies overhead became busier with planes and helicopters taking off or landing at Van Nyes. The small airport appeared to have several bustling businesses, as could be expected for servicing this area of a large metropolis. She pulled up outside the entrance to the airfield and got off her bike. She took a moment to stretch her legs as she read the 'Help Wanted' board posted by security check-point. By the look of things, multiple flight services ran their businesses out of the airport, everything from charter companies to stunt flying and film crews for Hollywood.

She scanned the ads, figuring if she got discharged in a few weeks she should see what was out there for work. There were several cards on the board wanting to hire pilots and mechanics, a cleaning crew and even a business for sale. She pulled out her notepad again and made note of who was advertising for what, who to call and so forth. The business for sale peaked her interest.

Getting back on her bike, she headed to the security check point, asking for directions after she pulled out her driver's license and military ID to register her visit. The guard directed her towards the hanger, giving her a brief description of the logo, the allowed her to pass through the gate. She made her way along the avenue of businesses and hangers and within a few minutes, she was passing the Stars and Stripes Air Service hanger, giving it a look over before continuing on. Seeing the red, white and blue design on the building caused a shiver to run up her spine, something tugging at the edge of her memory as if she had been here before.

It bothered her since one of the very few talents she had besides being a pilot was that she had a 'photographic' memory. She'd never been officially tested to verify if she did or not, but she had always been very careful to keep it to herself. Early on in her life, she'd learned to hide this little 'gift' by carrying a notepad and taking notes on anything that caught her interest. It usually spoked people to know that someone around them could remember anything they saw or read, so only a small handful of people knew about it.

As she drove on, that feeling of familiarity continued to nag at her while she looked for the business that was for sale. She was mildly surprised to find it was the hanger next to the Stars and Stripes building. As she stopped in front of it, seeing the 'For Sale' sign on the roll-back doors, she noted that it wasn't much to look at. It didn't look like anyone had kept up the building in years, paint peeling, a broken window pane and weeds growing up along the edges of the walls. She absently wondered why Stars and Stripes hadn't snapped it up to have extra storage, if nothing else. But its' general condition didn't leave her with a sense of confidence on her chances of setting up shop in a dump like that. Inquiring about the price wouldn't hurt since it may be discounted due to its run down condition.

With a sigh, she checked her watch to see she had thirty minutes before she was to meet Mr. Cliner. Taking a minute to check her surroundings, she drove her bike past several more hangers, observing the people working on several different varieties of aircraft. Finally, she pointed the bike towards a service entrance road that led along the back side of these hangers and headed towards the Stars and Stripes hanger. She found a place to park near the fence then secured the bike before climbing off. After a quick check for anyone close by, she unzipped her jacket and pulled out the 9mm Beretta from its holster. She checked the safety before ejecting the clip to check the rounds, replacing the clip before sliding it back into its holster. Having no idea what this meeting might be about, she wasn't taking chances with being in a strange place around people she didn't know.

She removed the duffle off the back of the bike then slung it over her shoulder, pulled off her helmet and gloves before scanning the area again to make sure she wasn't being watched. She felt a touch embarrassed for feeling so paranoid but without answers as to what this was all about, she was willing to be cautious. With her helmet swinging from her hand by the strap, she moved around to the side of the hanger, walking along the wall towards the front, watching for signs of anyone hanging around that didn't look like they belonged. She stopped for a moment at the corner of the hanger to watch the crew from the Stars and Stripes hanger work on preparing a motor in one of their choppers to be dismounted and removed.

As she stood there, an old, tan Ford Taurus pulled up in front of the building. A man climbed out of the car with some difficulty. He looked a little heavy around the middle, his brown hair thinning to bald and wearing clothes that could have come from the previous decade. He moved as if his joints were stiff and perhaps pained him. She could only assume that this was Mr. Cliner. He leaned back into the car and pulled out a worn, wide leather briefcase and headed into the hanger without looking around.

She waited a few more minutes, taking in the sights and sounds around her. Finally, feeling that things were as they seemed, she headed towards the hanger entrance. She entered through the open doors into a chaos that felt soothing to her nerves. The feeling of deja vu struck her harder this time. The hanger seemed so familiar to her that it caused her to stop and take a good look around at the interior. Her gaze came to rest on the older man standing next to a desk where a frazzled looking woman worked on an old desktop computer. Most likely she was the controller for the business but that was no guarantee. She saw Mr. Cliner digging around in one of his pockets, looking for something.

Walking up to the pair she remained silent as she waited for him to take notice of her as he continued to check his front pockets for something. Finding what he was looking for in his left jacket pocket, he looked up and gave a little start as his hand automatically covered his heart. "Good lord. You gave me a scare," he said, exhaling in a gust of breath.

The woman turned to look at her, "Is there something I can do for you?"

Looking from the woman to the man, she shook her head slightly. "No, thank you. I'm here to see Mr. Cliner."

The older man gave her a long look. "Ms. MacPhearson?" he asked.

"Major MacPhearson," she corrected politely, using her proper title, letting it be known that she was still a member of the military.

"My pardon," apologized the man. "May I ask if you have the requested ID's with you?" he asked.

She gave him a steady looked for a moment before setting her duffle bag down on the floor, her helmet set to rest on top of it. She reached into her leather jacket and pulled out her military ID, Driver's License, multi-class pilot license and passport. She tentatively held them out towards him.

The man took them carefully and began searching through them. He nodded as he looked at each piece of identification individually before handing them back.

"Please bear with me as I have one last check," he stated and held up a clipboard with a sheet that was obviously meant for recording fingerprint impressions. "Could you please ink both thumbs and then put your prints on the respective squares?"

Her eyes narrowed slightly as she looked at him, then at the clipboard. "What is this all about?"

The man looked back at her, still holding the clipboard out towards her. "If you pass this final verification, I will be more than happy to answer any and all questions," he said, looking at her almost pleadingly. "But legally, I can't say anything until I have your thumbprints and have compared them to prior thumbprints taken."

She blinked, feeling a jolt run through her body. "Prior thumbprints? When?" she asked, feeling alarmed. She had given the military her fingerprints when she enlisted and when she was fifteen, had her finger prints taken by police but those were part of a sealed file and her military prints weren't available for public record.

Mr. Cliner shook his head, "Believe me when I tell you that as soon as I can verify you are truly Cheyenne MacPhearson, I will gladly tell you everything, including when prior fingerprints were taken."

Clenching her jaw somewhat, she took the clipboard and pressed her left thumb to the inkpad that sat open on the secretary's desk. She lifted it and placed it in the corresponding square before switching hands to repeat the procedure with the right. When she was finished, she handed the clipboard back to the man before looking around for something to wipe her thumbs off with. Seeing nothing available, she gingerly reached into her jacket and pulled out a worn hanky and proceeded to clean her thumbs.

As she did that, the man went over to a photocopy machine that had seen better days. After making several copies of a document he'd pulled from a folder and taken with him, he repeated the process with the paper from the clipboard. He pulled out a small magnifying glass from his left jacket pocket, apparently what he'd been searching for earlier. Leaning over the copies laid out on top of the copier, he began to make marks with a red pen on both sets. While he worked to verify her identity, she turned to watch the crew from earlier removing the motor from the chopper. Several of the mechanics kept throwing her interesting looks before glancing down at the patches on her flight jacket.

Finally, Mr. Cliner came over to her and held up the papers as if in triumph, smiling warmly. "Thank you for your patience Major MacPhearson. I have verified your identity and if you would come with me, I have quite a bit to tell you." His smile held a touch of sadness for some reason she couldn't yet fathom.

Looking from the papers to his face, she throttled down the desire to strangle him if he didn't get to the point soon. Mentally 'sitting' on her frustration, she gave a slight nod then bent down and gathered up her gear. He picked up his briefcase and looked at the woman who had sat and watched the ordeal.

"Rachelle, I'm taking her to the office. We are not to be disturbed," he stated.

TBC -