He lands the glider on the field, and comes into noise and commotion as he exits.

“Phone call for you,” says Mulrooney, conversationally, helping him out of his flying jacket. “They didn’t leave a message, just a number in India.”

“Ah,” says McQueen. They walk across the field through the picnickers who gathered to watch him flying. A little boy runs up to them and McQueen scoops him up onto his shoulders, absently. The boy whoops and grabs his hair.

“We’ve got seventy thousand kilos of –” McQueen cuts him off — “well, in Amsterdam, waiting on your word. Shall I tell them we’re ready?”

“Dammit,” he growls. “I told them next week. It’s too early.” The boy on his shoulders is laughing and swaying in the sunshine, squeezing McQueen’s neck with his legs to keep his balance. “Fine, tell them to move.”

He swoops the boy down to the ground like an airplane and sends him back toward the picnic. Mulrooney and he go into the bushes and take the elevator back down to McQueen’s secret underground lair. Everything in the lair is covered in leopard-print faux fur or pleather. “Kill that designer and find a new one,” says McQueen.

“Of course,” says Mulrooney, and pulls out his silencer.