From behind an old wooden desk covered in invoices and repair orders, a single person at the far end of the tight space beckoned me deeper. He was a stringy-haired man in a rumpled gray sport coat and black slacks. Looked out of place in the dirty, cluttered surroundings that reeked of oil and hydraulic fluid.
Before any options came to mind, an armed man entered behind me before either of us could exchange pleasantries. His eyes were obscured by black sunglasses and his clothes were missing any markings that would identify him as TSA or law enforcement. He quickly patted me down, removing my phone from my pocket and inspecting it thoroughly as if it might be something other than what it appeared. Then, as he replaced my phone in my pocket, he looked to the man who was probably his boss. Still no words, but his eyebrows rose from behind the sunglasses—their own little language worked out presumably from years together.
The man behind the desk nodded. “Finish up with the screening, then let ’em back in the air,” he crowed matter-of-factly. “I got this one.” What was it with motherfuckers referring to me as this one?
“Excuse me?” I said as I hastily stalked toward the desk he’d obviously appropriated for this sole purpose. “I know my rights as a paying airline customer! And if you’re trying to harass me because I’m black—”
“Drop the act and have a seat, son,” he said, abruptly cutting me off mid-routine. “’Cause if you even think about trying to run, there’s three more just like him waiting on the other side of that door.”
Sunglasses grinned at me for a millisecond before reverting to stone and exiting the room.
“And I ain’t no terrorist,” I snapped, swiftly switching tactics.
“Yeah. You’re probably right about that,” he responded unfazed as he chose to finally stand. He walked around the desk and came forward, holding a folder in his hand. Was slightly taller than me and had an odd gait as if one of his legs had once been injured. “The question ... is just what are you,” he said from behind a cold, coffee-stained smile.
Whoever he was and whoever he answered to was patient.
Like me.
Waited until I’d boarded the plane with no chance of escape before springing the trap.
“We missed you in Newark by this much,” he said, pinching his thumb and index finger together. “Oh, you’re a slippery one, ain’t cha? But we got you now. We got you now.”
8
He stood two feet away, not completely confident in his assessment of me no doubt. I warily looked on as he opened the folder then flipped a photo at my feet.
“I could make you strip, but I think we’ve seen enough of that,” he commented as I looked at the black-and-white photo captured of me au naturel outside the compound down in Florida when I sprang Sophia. “Going to deny it’s you? ’Cause whatever is on your boarding pass I’m sure is more bullshit,” he taunted. Then he dropped another photo. Like fuckin’ playing cards and showing his hand one at a time.
It was the body of that man Hasan lying on the room floor of the Crowne Plaza with a bullet hole through his head.
“Messy,” he quipped. Then he dropped another.
This one was of a decomposed body in what looked to be a garbage dump.
I refused to give him the satisfaction of my recognition. But despite its appearance, I recalled the clothes of a man once sent to kill me. It was on an elevator in Dallas. In a place I once considered my sanctuary. Like Hasan, I hadn’t physically killed that man either. He died when his partner shot recklessly and missed.
Never knew what had happened to his body until now.
Not that I cared. He’d simply paid for trying to take me out.
“Tell me this,” my inquisitor posed, having laid out his preliminary evidence. “How does the murder of an Armenian thug in Dallas years ago connect with your little jailbreak at Prince Abdel Al-Bin Sada’s in Miami? I think Dallas PD was looking for someone
Before any options came to mind, an armed man entered behind me before either of us could exchange pleasantries. His eyes were obscured by black sunglasses and his clothes were missing any markings that would identify him as TSA or law enforcement. He quickly patted me down, removing my phone from my pocket and inspecting it thoroughly as if it might be something other than what it appeared. Then, as he replaced my phone in my pocket, he looked to the man who was probably his boss. Still no words, but his eyebrows rose from behind the sunglasses—their own little language worked out presumably from years together.
The man behind the desk nodded. “Finish up with the screening, then let ’em back in the air,” he crowed matter-of-factly. “I got this one.” What was it with motherfuckers referring to me as this one?
“Excuse me?” I said as I hastily stalked toward the desk he’d obviously appropriated for this sole purpose. “I know my rights as a paying airline customer! And if you’re trying to harass me because I’m black—”
“Drop the act and have a seat, son,” he said, abruptly cutting me off mid-routine. “’Cause if you even think about trying to run, there’s three more just like him waiting on the other side of that door.”
Sunglasses grinned at me for a millisecond before reverting to stone and exiting the room.
“And I ain’t no terrorist,” I snapped, swiftly switching tactics.
“Yeah. You’re probably right about that,” he responded unfazed as he chose to finally stand. He walked around the desk and came forward, holding a folder in his hand. Was slightly taller than me and had an odd gait as if one of his legs had once been injured. “The question ... is just what are you,” he said from behind a cold, coffee-stained smile.
Whoever he was and whoever he answered to was patient.
Like me.
Waited until I’d boarded the plane with no chance of escape before springing the trap.
“We missed you in Newark by this much,” he said, pinching his thumb and index finger together. “Oh, you’re a slippery one, ain’t cha? But we got you now. We got you now.”
8
He stood two feet away, not completely confident in his assessment of me no doubt. I warily looked on as he opened the folder then flipped a photo at my feet.
“I could make you strip, but I think we’ve seen enough of that,” he commented as I looked at the black-and-white photo captured of me au naturel outside the compound down in Florida when I sprang Sophia. “Going to deny it’s you? ’Cause whatever is on your boarding pass I’m sure is more bullshit,” he taunted. Then he dropped another photo. Like fuckin’ playing cards and showing his hand one at a time.
It was the body of that man Hasan lying on the room floor of the Crowne Plaza with a bullet hole through his head.
“Messy,” he quipped. Then he dropped another.
This one was of a decomposed body in what looked to be a garbage dump.
I refused to give him the satisfaction of my recognition. But despite its appearance, I recalled the clothes of a man once sent to kill me. It was on an elevator in Dallas. In a place I once considered my sanctuary. Like Hasan, I hadn’t physically killed that man either. He died when his partner shot recklessly and missed.
Never knew what had happened to his body until now.
Not that I cared. He’d simply paid for trying to take me out.
“Tell me this,” my inquisitor posed, having laid out his preliminary evidence. “How does the murder of an Armenian thug in Dallas years ago connect with your little jailbreak at Prince Abdel Al-Bin Sada’s in Miami? I think Dallas PD was looking for someone
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