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Authors: Matthew James
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mercifully, we are prepared for it. Kane has been ordered to accompany us and has outfitted us with a backpack water device. It’s a very streamlined bundle that kind of reminds me of a North Face Borealis hikers pack—it even has the North Face logo on it so it looks genuine. Sticking out of its top is an auto-closing water valve that only opens when sucked on, a nice touch so you don’t get sand in it.
The bottom half of the rucksack has its usual storage compartment like a normal bag. The only major difference in our packs versus someone else’s is that they are designed to accommodate the Glock 17 9mm handgun, and its three spare magazines neatly inside. The real kicker with these bags, the Tactical-Backpack or Tac-Pac as Kane calls them, is that you can conveniently draw your already loaded weapon from a Velcro-style pocket on the side. So there is no need for a holster.
Even Kane has his dual Eagles tucked away. His is customized so he can draw both at once, one from each side. Rambo eat your heart out.
“Do we really need the guns?” I had asked earlier.
“Do you want to be as unprepared as before if we run into some of the psycho brigade again?” Kane replied.
He got me there. And no…I don’t.
He continued, “You got severely lucky in Algiers, Hank. If we come across more people from Zero, I doubt there will only be a small group of them this time.”
We enter through the rear of the airport with a grind of sliding doors, the screech of metal-on-metal snapping me back into the now.
It isn’t as organized as it was in Algiers, but on the bright side, there are fewer terrorists, which can’t be a bad thing, I suppose.
Kane leads the way through security, flashing his credentials. The local airport police stationed here give Kane a wide-eyed glance and step aside. I can’t tell if both officers were intimidated by the man’s ID or by his sheer mass. Probably both, I decide.
Five minutes later we exit the airport and walk out to the pick-up area out front which is basically a parking lot.
“Ah, Omar my boy!” Dad yells.
A young man climbs out of a Land Rover and heads our way. He is of average height and build and maybe around 25 years old. Dad strolls towards the newcomer and embraces him.
“Can we trust this guy?” Kane asks.
I glance over and see him with his hand in his pack—no doubt clutching the hand grip of his gun. I step towards him and bend down, pretending to tie my shoe.
“I don’t know,” I say not looking up. “I’ve never met him before, but he comes highly recommended from some colleagues back in the States.” I stand, “Dad seems to trust him. Just keep an eye on him, okay?”
Kane nods and joins Dad over by the car. It feels weird telling a “company man” what to do but, he is pretty much our own private security. The thought of this six-foot-six war machine as my own personal muscle makes me smile and puts a little pep in my step, making me forget about the heat for a second. Okay, maybe half a second.
I sigh, wiping away a bead of sweat from my face, and join the rest of our party mumbling, “We might as well get the introductions over with.”
I step up next to Kane as he reaches out and shakes Omar’s hand, “Hi, the name’s Kane…Dr. Jeremy Kane.”
Both Dad and I quickly glance over to the big man, doing a double take. Dang, his name really is Kane. I could have sworn he was lying in the hospital room when I asked him. He notices our attention and gives us a wink. Omar is too busy wincing from the pain of the vice grip crushing his much smaller hand to notice our reactions.
Kane mercifully releases the slighter man, steps aside, and slaps me hard on the back, “And this is the legendary Hank Boyd, Dr. Boyd’s son.”
I groan. Kane is laying on the act pretty thick.
Omar grimaces and flexes his hand. Before he looks my way, he gives Kane a venomous look. He turns, “Yes, Mr. Boyd, your father has told me much about you.”
He used
The bottom half of the rucksack has its usual storage compartment like a normal bag. The only major difference in our packs versus someone else’s is that they are designed to accommodate the Glock 17 9mm handgun, and its three spare magazines neatly inside. The real kicker with these bags, the Tactical-Backpack or Tac-Pac as Kane calls them, is that you can conveniently draw your already loaded weapon from a Velcro-style pocket on the side. So there is no need for a holster.
Even Kane has his dual Eagles tucked away. His is customized so he can draw both at once, one from each side. Rambo eat your heart out.
“Do we really need the guns?” I had asked earlier.
“Do you want to be as unprepared as before if we run into some of the psycho brigade again?” Kane replied.
He got me there. And no…I don’t.
He continued, “You got severely lucky in Algiers, Hank. If we come across more people from Zero, I doubt there will only be a small group of them this time.”
We enter through the rear of the airport with a grind of sliding doors, the screech of metal-on-metal snapping me back into the now.
It isn’t as organized as it was in Algiers, but on the bright side, there are fewer terrorists, which can’t be a bad thing, I suppose.
Kane leads the way through security, flashing his credentials. The local airport police stationed here give Kane a wide-eyed glance and step aside. I can’t tell if both officers were intimidated by the man’s ID or by his sheer mass. Probably both, I decide.
Five minutes later we exit the airport and walk out to the pick-up area out front which is basically a parking lot.
“Ah, Omar my boy!” Dad yells.
A young man climbs out of a Land Rover and heads our way. He is of average height and build and maybe around 25 years old. Dad strolls towards the newcomer and embraces him.
“Can we trust this guy?” Kane asks.
I glance over and see him with his hand in his pack—no doubt clutching the hand grip of his gun. I step towards him and bend down, pretending to tie my shoe.
“I don’t know,” I say not looking up. “I’ve never met him before, but he comes highly recommended from some colleagues back in the States.” I stand, “Dad seems to trust him. Just keep an eye on him, okay?”
Kane nods and joins Dad over by the car. It feels weird telling a “company man” what to do but, he is pretty much our own private security. The thought of this six-foot-six war machine as my own personal muscle makes me smile and puts a little pep in my step, making me forget about the heat for a second. Okay, maybe half a second.
I sigh, wiping away a bead of sweat from my face, and join the rest of our party mumbling, “We might as well get the introductions over with.”
I step up next to Kane as he reaches out and shakes Omar’s hand, “Hi, the name’s Kane…Dr. Jeremy Kane.”
Both Dad and I quickly glance over to the big man, doing a double take. Dang, his name really is Kane. I could have sworn he was lying in the hospital room when I asked him. He notices our attention and gives us a wink. Omar is too busy wincing from the pain of the vice grip crushing his much smaller hand to notice our reactions.
Kane mercifully releases the slighter man, steps aside, and slaps me hard on the back, “And this is the legendary Hank Boyd, Dr. Boyd’s son.”
I groan. Kane is laying on the act pretty thick.
Omar grimaces and flexes his hand. Before he looks my way, he gives Kane a venomous look. He turns, “Yes, Mr. Boyd, your father has told me much about you.”
He used
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