Chapter Twelve
Skeeter Jackson had never minded crowds.
But the packed mob in Victoria Station would’ve been enough to discompose the pope and his entire College of Cardinals. Skeeter hadn’t even reached the rope barricade of the departures lounge when waiting newsies swarmed all over him, shouting questions and shoving microphones and cameras into his face with scant regard for damage inflicted.
“Mr. Jackson! Is it true you’re leading the search team over the protests of Senator Caddrick—”
“—tell us your plan to locate the senator’s missing daughter—”
“—how much they’re paying you to risk your life, bringing terrorists to justice—”
Skeeter, lips thinned down to a tight, white line, had never been gladder in his life to reach a departures lounge. He fled past the barrier, gate pass in hand, leaving them to howl in his wake. Paula Booker had taken refuge in one corner, notably seating herself as far as possible from Sid Kaederman. The detective glared sourly at Skeeter and snapped irritably at a Time Tours employee who’d just brought coffee. Skeeter headed the other way, having no desire to renew his acquaintance until absolutely necessary.
“Coffee, Skeeter?” The voice came from the farthest corner of the lounge, startling him. He found Kit Carson leaning against one of the steel beams supporting the long flights of stairs and departures platform.
“Kit! What’re you doing here?”
“Seeing you off, of course. Coffee?”
“Oh, man, how I need a cup! Thanks, boss.” Skeeter gulped, while scratching his itching thigh surreptitiously and mentally castigating the British for insisting on woolen suits. He wasn’t quite allergic, but misery was relative. He should’ve put on that synthetic bodysuit Connie had offered, which helped reduce the itch, rather than stuffing it into his luggage.