This time, the convoy of black SUVs wasn't escorting a shopping cart. Instead, they moved faster, almost reverentially, guiding a commandeered, relatively clean pickup truck away from the abandoned intersection. In its bed sat Amo's entire haul—bags of aluminum cans, plastic bottles, and cardboard. Two agents drove and guarded these "precious assets."
Amo himself sat in the back of the lead SUV, wedged between Kyle and another muscular agent. The air conditioning blew cold air, cutting some of the heat and smell from him, but he seemed indifferent. He tilted his head, staring out at the rapidly retreating Florida landscape, his eyes empty and unfocused.
Kyle, on the other hand, was restless—eager to advance their "cooperation," yet terrified of every subtle twitch from the man beside him. He tried again to open a conversation:
"Sir, we've arranged a temporary, perfectly quiet accommodation where you can—"
"Meat." Amo interrupted, without looking back.
"What? Oh, yes! Right! Barbecue! Already arranged!" Kyle stammered. "Top-quality Angus beef! The finest chef!"
Amo gave a low hum and said no more.
The convoy didn't head toward any city hotel or government facility. Instead, it drove directly to a small regional airport in Pensacola, normally off-limits. The runway was clearly under extra security, yet still eerily empty.
At the far end of the runway, the convoy stopped in front of a massive, sleek Boeing 747, painted with the unmistakable blue-and-white Stars and Stripes.
Air Force One.
Or one of the president's backup planes, urgently summoned to serve as a limo for the "calamity of war."
The boarding stairs were down. A group of chefs in pristine white uniforms and tall hats waited tensely below, flanked by a few high-ranking officials, each face a mix of solemnity and anxiety, as if standing in judgment of humanity's fate.
The SUVs stopped. Agents disembarked to secure the perimeter. Kyle took a deep breath, straightened his crooked tie, and rushed to open Amo's door.
"Sir, we've arrived. Please." He forced calm into his voice.
Amo stepped out, squinting at the enormous plane, then at the lined-up chefs and officials. Finally, his gaze settled on a temporary, professional-grade outdoor grill next to the stairs. Charcoal burned bright, with thick, sizzling, aroma-filled steaks arranged neatly atop it.
The smell of meat hit him.
For the first time, a faint, almost imperceptible relaxation crossed his otherwise stoic face. He ignored the officials entirely and walked straight toward the grill.
The head chef trembled, nearly dropping the tongs.
"Sir… ribeye, medium-rare… acceptable?" His voice shook.
Amo said nothing. He leaned closer, inspecting the meat's color and sear, sniffing the fragrant smoke. After a few seconds, he gave a single approving hum: "Mm."
The chef nearly cried from relief.
A star-adorned Air Force general stepped forward, attempting to regain authority.
"Your Excellency! On behalf of—"
Amo pointed at a perfectly cooked, slightly charred steak.
The chef immediately understood, plucking it onto a sturdy white plate. Amo grabbed it, ignored utensils, and bit directly into the hot, juice-dripping meat. He chewed deliberately, focused, oil running down his chin.
Officials and soldiers froze, stunned. Welcome speeches lodged in throats, unspeakable.
Kyle buried his face in his hand.
Amo devoured half the steak in a few bites, finally satiating the most urgent hunger. He glanced up at the massive plane and asked, muffled between chews:
"This big iron bird… how much scrap can it carry?"
"Scrap…?" The general blinked, utterly unprepared.
"Aluminum cans, tin, cardboard," Amo added, taking another bite.
The general's face flushed red. He'd trained for nuclear war, but never for calculating Air Force One's scrap capacity. Desperate, he looked to Kyle.
Kyle forced himself forward, quietly explaining:
"Sir, this is the president's plane, not… for… hauling recyclables."
"Oh," Amo said, slightly disappointed, but not concerned. He finished the steak.
"Would've carried a lot," he noted.
Three bites later, the steak gone, he licked his fingers and addressed the chef:
"Another piece. This one's decent."
Then, remembering the "business at hand," he turned to Kyle and the general:
"So, what cooperation were you talking about?"
Kyle and the general almost cried in relief—they finally got him to speak.
The general cleared his throat, attempting authority:
"Your Excellency! Regarding post-Alliance strategy and your… unique abilities, we hope to establish a stable—"
"Scrap collection station," Amo interrupted, presenting his plan. "You run it. Big. Scales accurate." He gestured to the runway. "Place like this works. Spacious. Easy for trucks."
He explained the "business model" to two stunned senior officials:
"I collect, you receive. Price… aluminum, ten cents each. Iron… forget it, not worth it, saves you trouble."