One benefits of operating a notorious crime ring is that I’ve got an inside man in a lot of places. I pull out my phone, making a quick call to a friendly TSA agent. There’s no way I’m going into the terminal unarmed. And I’m not interested in spending money on a ticket to buy my way through.
“Sunny, this is Francisco,” I say.
“Yes, sir,” Sunny says on the other end of the line. I can hear him stuffing a sandwich into his mouth, and I realize I’ve caught him on break.
“We need to get through security,” I explain.
“Sure, boss,” Sunny replies. “When?”
“Now!” I demand.
The sound of hastily crinkled paper fills the line, then Sunny’s frightened voice, “Coming.”
We wait for five minutes as my man rushes back from whatever break room he was in. I watch him hurry to one of the checkpoints, where he taps the current TSA agent on the shoulder. They trade a few words, and then Sunny takes her place. The line resumes, and we approach.
We’re all armed, and there’s a security tube that we’re supposed to step into that will reveal all our hidden weapons. But Sunny takes us around the device, explaining to me that VIP passengers are exempt. He says it just loud enough that it can be overheard, and that seems to satisfy everyone.
I don’t look back as we march past the other poor slobs who are rethreading their belts and putting their shoes back on. Giovanni and Luca are grim. We split up at the other end of the security gate to search the terminals.
There are a thousand places the bastard could hide. We don’t even know what flight Marcello’s on. I take hallway A, Giovanni takes B, and Luca takes C. The other soldier with us takes E and F. I search up and down the waiting areas, the cafes, and the restrooms with no luck. I decide to go to Wing D, to start fresh.
I don’t see him waiting in line for coffee. I check the two airport bars and the cologne store, but no luck. I duck into the men’s bathroom, and that’s where I hit paydirt. Marcello is just standing there, looking at himself in the mirror. There’s a bottle of hair dye on the counter next to him, and he’s massaging it onto his scalp.
“Going somewhere?” I ask lightly.
Marcello takes one look at me and tries to run. But I’m blocking the door, so he has nowhere to go. I pull out my gun, making sure he knows who’s in charge this time around. He stumbles into one of the stalls, but that’s a dead end. I push the stall door open, and he’s standing beside the toilet, looking like an idiot.
“Let’s go,” I say.
“You can’t shoot me here,” he says.
“I’m not planning on it, but if you don’t move now, I’ll take my chances,” I respond.
He gulps, looking from me to the gun and back to my face. I can see him weighing his odds, and I don’t want to give him time tomake the wrong decision. I clock him in the nose with the butt of the pistol, causing blood to gush from his nostrils.
He cries out, pressing a hand to his face. I grab him by the collar and force him out of the stall. This isn’t going to be easy, dragging a bleeding man through the terminal, but I don’t have a lot of options. I want him dead, but I also want him to suffer. Shooting him now would only set off alarms and cause me the added headache of having to deal with airport security.
He’s mumbling something, but I pay no attention. I grab a paper towel from the dispenser near the sink and hand it to him. He takes it, pressing it to his nose obediently. I shove him out of the bathroom, putting the gun in my jacket pocket. We walk as unobtrusively as possible down the hallway, toward the exit.
Marcello spots the collection of TSA agents and airport security that are packed around the lobby. I don’t want him to get any funny ideas, so I push him along. We continue down to the end of the terminal, where I find a door that leads to a staircase.
Inside, we’re all alone. There’s nothing but rusted metal railings and stairs that lead both up and down. I shove Marcello into a corner and hit him once again for good measure. He’s obviously smart enough not to start a fight, so he just takes it, doubling over in pain.
I text Giovanni.Got him. Heading out.
There’s no response, but I know Giovanni is already rounding up the rest of our team and heading out to the car. The car should be parked right in front of the departure gate by now, so there are going to be eyes on us. I have to find a way to get back there without tipping the police off. The cameras we can take care of.There is always someone who owes me a favor, but if Marcello makes a scene, the police will have to do something.
“Down,” I command.
“You’re dead,” Marcello swears. “Andretti is going to find you.”
“Not if I find him first,” I say, waving the gun inside my pocket to let him know that my finger’s still on the trigger.
Marcello shakes his head, stumbling down a few stairs before he grabs the railing. I walk down behind him, making sure he doesn’t move too fast. We descend one flight before there’s another door that leads outside. We’re in an employee-only zone, with the tarmac to our right. I grab Marcello by the shoulder and push him to the left.
We have to walk for at least a quarter mile before we’re finally able to hook around the building and make it back to the car. The whole time, Marcello’s looking back and forth, searching for a way out. No one bothers us, proof that security is only effective for people who want to follow the rules.
When we make it back to the drop-off point, there are a few guys smoking cigarettes and a few teenagers on their phones. A lady with a baby is trying to get the kid to stop crying, and there are at least two dozen new travelers who are grabbing luggage out of cars and hugging people goodbye.
