CHAPTER SEVEN
Zero parked the car right on the abandoned airstrip of Meadow Field. He had taken a slightly circuitous route there, sticking to back roads and avoiding the highways for fear that the CIA might have flagged his car—which he was certain they had.
Meadow Field was comprised of just a single runway, the building and hangar long since torn down in the fifteen years of disuse. Weeds and flowers sprouted up through cracks in the tarmac and the ignored grass on either side of the runway grew tall with disregard.
But despite its appearance, it was a gratifying and welcome sight for Zero. About thirty yards away was an old pickup truck, the side of it painted with stenciled letters that read “Third Street Garage.” The burly mechanic leaned against the driver’s side door, his trucke
