The revolving doors kept spinning, taking people into the terminal or spitting them out into harsh sunlight. Brad straddled his bags and watched people hurry past while, thirty feet away, Dean paced back and forth on a broad slab of cement. Dean’s voice cut through the distant jet engines and passing cabs as he talked on his cellular phone. With his eyes, Dean directed Brad toward the ramp leading to SFO arrivals. A black Range Rover with tinted windows and glistening rims rounded the corner.
Dean nodded, seemingly seeking rare approval.
Apparently this is what we’ve been waiting for, Brad thought as he eyed the approaching SUV—the low profile tires all wrong for jeep trails with deep ruts and jagged rocks. They hadn’t even pulled into the campground yet. Everyone will think we’re total a*******. Brad crossed his arms over his chest.
Dean covered the receiver and shouted, “First class all the way.”