Mako (The Mako Saga: Book 1) (18 page)

Chapter 10: The Band

The alarm clock went off with its usual obnoxious fury at 7:05 on Saturday morning, though unlike previous mornings when he’d have been content to savor his usual three-snooze minimum, Lee rounded the corner of his bathroom, fresh from the shower, and silenced the chirping device. Having woken prior to dawn, spry with anticipation of the day’s events, he’d tried to temper his excitement with a leisurely morning of waffles and coffee over an hour of CNN and SportsCenter as he packed for San Diego. Once the hour had crept past 9:15, however, lounging time was over, and tossing the freshly stuffed duffel bag over his shoulder, Lee topped off his FSU travel mug and headed for the door.

Turning right onto A1A toward the airfield where he’d meet the others, Lee basked in the open morning sun as he shifted gears—his nose filling with the warm, salty air around him—his thoughts still swirling with promise for the weekend ahead. He was absolutely thrilled, and he couldn’t deny it. Granted, anyone in his situation would’ve probably felt the same way over an all-expenses-paid trip to one of the country’s most glamorous cities, but for Lee it went way beyond that. It was about the break he so desperately needed from reality, and the friends he’d get to share it with—the same friends who had been there with him during this entire journey, like they’d been through so many other major events in his life, good and bad.

As Golden Earring’s “Twilight Zone” crunched through the stereo, it occurred to Lee just how much he’d missed them all. Sure, they’d seen each other nearly once a week via webcam for months now, and while that’d been a fantastic way to reunite the group without living in the same city, it was hardly the same as seeing everyone face to face. There were no happy hours, no late-night visits for cards, coffee, or gaming, no impromptu trips for dinner or to a show—all of which they’d lived on while in school at Florida State. True, there’d been the occasional visits from Danny in recent months when he’d needed an escape from the unemployment line, or a handful of run-ins with Mac in Tallahassee before she’d left for Athens. But the entire crew, together again—live and in person? That hadn’t really happened since Lee’s graduation party… and oh, what a night that’d been, he thought. Now, here he was, about to embark on the single coolest adventure of his life, and he’d do it with his crew.

Filled with a whole new level of excitement, Lee slid his shades over his eyes, cranked the volume dial to nine, and stepped on the gas as the silver SUV rumbled down the coastline toward an airfield, a trip, and a family that, suddenly, he couldn’t seem to get to fast enough.

Arriving at the entrance of Cordelia Airport (a small, private airstrip which was normally reserved for high-dollar corporate types and the local golfing celebs from nearby Ponte Vedra), the Jeep came to a halt outside the gated entrance; and Lee gave a quick wave to the guard in the security station as he keyed the code that Reiser had given him into the access pad. Seconds later, once the motorized gate concluded its chattering, chain-linked crawl across the pavement, Lee waited for a nod of approval from the guard before resuming his hold on the wheel and heading north into the complex.

Passing the air traffic control tower and a cluster of admin buildings in the distance, Lee eventually spied a long row of hangars to the east, and retrieving the scribbled directions from his glove box, he gave a quick double-check of their chicken-scratch before finally hooking a left onto the main tarmac.

“Hangar 2B, 3D, 4A…” Lee murmured as the Jeep taxied down the single-file row of tall, metal structures in search of its final destination—Hangar 5C. As it turned out, the car parked in the hangar’s first space provided him with all the direction he’d need.

Classically restored in its original Shadow Gray, the 1970 Camaro sat quietly beneath the morning sun as its driver—a tall, blond-haired man in his early 30s, dressed stylishly as always in dark blue jeans, brown leather loafers, and a pinstriped, casual-dress shirt—stood slouched against its trunk, nursing a half-empty bottle of soda.

“Well, well, well,” Danny Tucker cackled, adjusting his Ray-Ban sunglasses as the Jeep came to rest beside the Camaro. “Ladies and gentlemen, the doctor is in the house! How’s it been, bro?”

“Don’t suppose I can complain much… lately, anyway,” Lee said heartily, hopping out and throwing his arms around the man who’d been like a brother to him for almost two decades now. “How’s life back in Tally?”

“Same as ever,” Danny shrugged. “Résumé writing, cheap TV dinners, and lots of time to catch up on my DVR. Aside from that,” he scoffed, “nada.”

“Any word on that Quantico gig?” Lee asked.

Danny shook his head. “Flamed out.”

“Sorry, brother,” said Lee. “For what it’s worth, the offer still stands if you want to come to Jax and give a look around here. Who knows? Maybe I could con the university into payin’ you some kinda consulting fee as a guest speaker at one of my lectures. It wouldn’t be much, but it’s a few extra bucks anyway.”

“I could even bring my Glock,” Danny said with a coy smile. “You know, for demonstrative purposes. I’ve done a little research into this, and it’s been my experience that firearm visual aids go a long way in grabbing students’ attention—particularly the females.”

Lee smirked a reply. “Yeah, well, everybody needs an exit strategy sometimes, so I’m just puttin’ it out there. Besides,” he smiled back at Danny, “we can’t exactly have you crawlin’ back to your stripper ex-girlfriend, now, can we?”

“You really wanna go there?” Danny warned. “Seriously? Considering who’s pulling up here in the next few minutes, you… Lee Summerston…
really
want to go there?”

“Point taken,” he conceded, backing off. “On the bright side, this little excursion of ours should be enough to keep you outta the red for a few months, anyway.”

“No kidding!” Danny exclaimed. “This Reiser guy put enough in my account that I’m flush for a solid six months when we get back, and if I tighten my belt financially, I can probably stretch that to a year. Talk about awesome timing.”

“Yeah, ain’t that the truth,” Lee agreed. “I got a call from the head of my department just before I left campus yesterday.”

“Really?” Danny said, intrigued.

“Yeah. She wants to talk to me about the whole tenure thing when I get back.” Lee laughed out loud. “I guess that PGC grant made quite the impression.”

“Sounds like,” Danny said. “You gonna take the job?”

Lee’s expression flattened as he shrugged.

“Wow, try to contain your enthusiasm there, bro.”

“I don’t know, Danny,” said Lee. “I mean, it’s financial security, and god knows there’s something to be said for that nowadays. But….” he paused. “But it’s still a crap job, man, in a crap school. Tenure just keeps me from gettin’ fired from it is all.”

“Maybe,” Danny noted. “But like you said, there is something to be said for that these days. Besides,” he added, gesturing to Lee’s dark skin tone and noticeably leaner physique. “It’s not like the coast has been all that bad to you, ya know?”

Lee gave him a look and a grumble. “Yeah, well, it’s… whatever.”

The two continued to chat, though shortly thereafter they were interrupted by the distant, glugging roar of a motorcycle engine on approach from the airfield’s main gate. Recognizing it instantly, Lee and Danny exchanged obvious glances.

“Three guesses who that could be,” Danny remarked.

Turning to face the blacktop behind them, the duo watched as a lone, dark-skinned rider rounded the corner onto the tarmac, his broad shoulders perched high behind the handlebars of a jet-black Harley Davidson Bad Boy. Slowing to a crawl as he neared the parking lot, the rider dropped his feet to the ground and walked the mammoth machine to a stop beside Lee’s Jeep, as its signature Evolution V-Twin engine silenced with a final, rumbling chug.

“Good morning, lads,” said Hamish Lunley in his thick Scottish drawl, rising from his seat on the bike and removing his shorty-style helmet to reveal his trademark shaved head. “Beautiful weather for a holiday, is it not?”

“It’s been entirely too long, Big Man,” Lee smiled, slapping a grip of Lunley’s bear-like paw and pulling him in for a hearty embrace. “It’s good to see ya again, partner.”

“You as well, brother,” Hamish agreed. “What’s it been now? Two years?”

“Since my graduation party, so yeah. Something like that.”

Hamish shook his head and extended a hand to Danny. “Danny, ma boy!” he chuckled. “Good to see ya again.”

“Likewise, Hamish; how’s Daytona?”

“Sunny as ever. You should plan another visit sometime soon. Ya know, brother… Kelly from the shop still asks about you.”

Danny cringed. “You don’t say,” he muttered.

“Indeed it is. As a matter of fact, she made it a point to remind me that she’s got a spare bedroom in her apartment for any of ma friends who might wish to come down. They need only say the word and it’s theirs for as long as they like.”

“Thanks bro, but as much as I hate to disappoint such an…” Danny gulped, “attractive, charming young lady—whose body may or may not be covered almost entirely in tattoos—I’m afraid I’m pretty locked down in Tally these days.”

“So she’s got a little ink,” he admitted, examining the full sleeves of Celtic art covering his own arms. “Tattoos are an ‘in thing’ nowadays. Most people think a few are sexy.”

“She’s got 28 of them, Hamish,” Danny said bluntly, “and they’re all friggin’ Disney characters! For crying out loud, man, her entire upper body looks like a three-year-old’s finger painting!”

Hamish flashed a wry smile at his friend. “Don’t be so quick to write her off, Danny. She may be a wee bit rough around the edges, but that’s what makes her the gem that she is. Besides,” he laughed, flicking a strand of Danny’s product-filled hair, “a little ‘rough around the edges’ might be a nice change from yar usual choice of… well… female companionship.”

Danny gave a groan and returned to his soda.

“So, Hamish,” Lee interjected, drawing a noticeable look of thanks from Danny. “Speakin’ of your shop, how’s business these days around the old Highland Thunder?”

Lunley’s expression dimmed almost instantly. “We’re still there,” he noted, “though it was pretty touch and go there for a while. The first and second quarters were killers. Sales simply aren’t what they were five years ago and as such, I’ve had to cut pretty much every corner I could find.”

“Layoffs?” Lee asked, remembering how loyal Hamish was to his staff.

“Aye, first round was three months ago. I did everything I could to avoid it, but in the end, there was just no other way, particularly given the steep drop in business lately.”

“Who’d you have to cut loose?” Danny asked.

“Thankfully for now, just a couple of part-timers from the garage, but the real blow came this past week when Ron turned in his two weeks’ notice.”

“Whoooaaaaa,” Lee crowed. “Ron’s been your GM since the start. I mean, you fellas practically opened the doors to that place together, right?”

“Indeed we did,” Hamish said somberly. “Honestly, I can’t say as I blame him, though. He and Trisha are expecting a new baby in the next few months, and with all the uncertainty hovering over the shop’s long-term future, I can’t blame him for leaving, given his personal circumstances.”

“Where’d he go?” Danny asked.

“He landed a regional sales manager’s post with Honda. In his defense, he did come and talk to me about it when they first approached him, and in truth, he wasn’t interested initially. But when they agreed to minimize his travel schedule, he just felt like he had no other choice but to take it for his family’s sake.”

“So I’m guessin’ Reiser’s little payday for this consulting gig really came in handy for you too, huh?” Lee noted, and Hamish exhaled a boom of relief.

“You have no idea, lads. Being completely candid, and just between us, it saved ma shop. The way things were going, unless I had one helluva holiday sales season, I was looking at shutting the doors no later than February. But with this, I should be able to stay afloat well into next spring when Bike Week rolls around. Providing I get a good boost there—and I usually do—then maybe Highland Thunder can start moving back into the black.”

“See anything cool roll across your floor lately?” Danny asked, hoping to lighten the mood with one of Lunley’s favorite topics—vintage bikes.

“Eh,” chirped Hamish. “I had a guy bring in a pretty sweet old Indian a while back, but truthfully, I stay so bogged down with admin stuff these days that I rarely ever make it out to the garage.”

Hamish’s face went solemn, and Lee understood all too well why. Lunley’s passion for motorcycles went way beyond entrepreneurism. When it came to bikes, he was practically a scholar. Ever since picking up his first wrench at age 13 in his Uncle’s garage back home in North Berwick, he’d lived to study them—to break them down and see what made them unique. It was what had inspired him to open his own shop, just as Lee’s love of history had driven him toward academia. As such, Lee knew better than most what it felt like to have to abandon one’s passion to pay the bills; but moreover, he also understood the nagging sense of misery that usually went with the choice.

Just then, the group was rudely interrupted by the loud, intrusive sounds of screeching tires, a roaring engine, and the deafening chorus of Alice in Chains’ “Man in the Box” which seemed to explode out of nowhere from the far end of the tarmac. Turning toward the commotion, they watched as a faded blue Dodge Dakota pickup fishtailed its way through a thick cloud of dust and exhaust fumes, staggering briefly before righting itself and racing up the asphalt toward them. Immediately identifiable by its weatherworn paint, tall tires, plethora of hunting decals, and the long, whip antenna which flopped like a weed in a tornado atop the truck’s rusted toolbox, the ragged vehicle left little doubt as to who was behind the wheel.

“I won’t even give you three guesses on this one,” Danny said to Lee, eying the custom front license plate, featuring a grizzled, cigarette smoking skull in a jester’s hat with the acronym “F-U-B-A-R” captioned beneath it in bold, gothic font.