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Stepping off the shuttle at Newport News/Williamsburg International Airport, Monty cursed the heat and shuffled off to find his ride. As far as he was concerned, Virginia’s July heat was no better than Yucatan’s equatorial swelter, and the right name for this place was Patrick Henry Airport. That’s what they used to call it when he was kid, and history mattered.
Even at night the humidity was oppressive. But it wasn’t the heat Monty was worried about, it was the darkness. Every four or five steps he turned and walked backwards to make sure there was nothing following, his boots making scuffing sounds on the concrete.