Chapter 8 - The Departure
Arthur let out a deep, booming laugh that echoed off the metal canopy of the gas station—a genuine, hearty laugh that he hadn't experienced in a decade.
"Done," Arthur said, putting the fifty-dollar bill inside his breast pocket like a prized trophy. "Consider it our first corporate policy change."
The tactical guards emerged from the convenience store, holding a weeping Vance by his collar as they tossed his personal belongings into a cardboard box on the sidewalk. The store lights flickered and died as the remote systems shut down the pumps and locked the registers.
Miller stepped out of the lead Suburban, holding his tablet. "Director Vance, the jet is prepped at the county airfield. The flight to Zurich leaves in forty minutes."
"Good," Arthur said. He turned to Tristan, extending his hand. "Drop the apron, son. It's time to leave the rain behind."
Tristan reached behind his waist, unfastened the knot of his grey apron, and let it fall onto the wet asphalt. He pulled off his work gloves, revealing hands that were clean, strong, and ready.
He stepped past the oil slick, past his discarded name tag, and walked toward the open door of the lead black Suburban.
As he reached the vehicle, he paused, looking back one last time at the dark, silent gas station.
The rusted white Ford pickup truck still sat beside Pump Number Four, its rusted hood gleaming under the soft moonlight that was finally breaking through the dissipating rain clouds.
"Tristan?" Arthur called out from the rear door of the second vehicle. "Is there something wrong?"
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Tristan looked down at his own reflection in the wet side mirror of the SUV. The tired, humble gas station attendant was gone, replaced by a young man whose eyes reflected the vast, dangerous world he was about to inherit.
"No, Mr. Vance," Tristan said softly, stepping into the leather-lined interior of the vehicle. "Everything is according to plan."
