As he walked into the airport, Agent Gabriel Ortiz looked at the TSA security personnel and the equipment they used and felt nothing but total disgust. Normally, he would be riding in a private jet with which he could bypass all security measures that the American public were subject to. Underwear bombers, insane rag heads, and the politically correct fuckers on the Hill made it “necessary” that the average citizen have their shafts stroked and breasts groped for “National Security.” More like Top Flight Security of the World.
I miss Israel, Ortiz thought as he neared the first security checkpoint. In Israel, the security were taught to profile. If it looked like a duck and walked like a duck, they figured it might just be a duck and would check accordingly. If you were an 80-year-old white woman, they let you through. If you name was Randy Thompson and you were from the middle of nowhere, Kansas, they didn’t ask to feel you up. But if you wore a towel around your head, were reading the Koran, and your name was Mohammad Mohammad, they would make damn sure that under that dress wasn’t an IED that would kill innocent people.
Not in America. No, in the name of protecting the people, the fat TSA man ahead was scanning everyone who comes though and that made Ortiz upset. This rent-a-cop was going to earn his pay today. Ortiz smiled slightly as he thought of this.
“Sir,” the mustached fat man said to Ortiz, the dill pickle from earlier still on his breath, “please remove all items from your pockets, remove your belt, and place the said items in this bucket prior to walking through this scanner.”
Ortiz glared at him.
“Young man,” he growled at the TSA rent-a-cop, “I do not consent to this. I am not going to expose myself to radiation just so you can skip this process on some Middle East fucker behind me because you don’t have the backbone to stand up to real threats! And brush your teeth you fucking hillbilly.”
This took back the TSA security agent. No one ever told them no. And never with such force. He looked at Ortiz and wondered what was upsetting this man so much. It was just security protocol…
“Sir,” he said while he gave Ortiz another visual one-over. “If you choose to decline walking through this scanner, I will be forced to do a manual pat down if you wish to board your flight.”
The civilians in line behind Ortiz were beginning to look nervous. Ortiz could sense this and played on it.
“You telling me you wanna feel my dick, playboy?”
“No, sir, that’s not what I am saying. I am simply telling you that…”
Ortiz cut him off.
“You wanna feel my dick! Ooo papi! Alright! Let’s do this! Now do I need to have my clothes on or off for this? I gotta tell you, hillbilly, you just made my day! The only action this dick has seen in the last year has been my left hand and a hooker in New York. See, I like to use my left hand because, well, it just feels…”
“Sir, there is no need for this! I am merely informing you that a manual pat down is necessary in order to maintain…”
“Maintain what, hillbilly?” Ortiz was visibly and audible showing his anger. “Security? Is that what this is? Let me tell you, you fat fucking piece of shit, I have defended this country from threats that you will never even hear of. And I have to say that I did not do it so you could maintain your power trip on civilians…”
“Mr. Ortiz,” boomed a voice from behind the checkpoint. A man in a fancy business suit walked up behind the agent that Ortiz was yelling at and whispered something in his ear. The agent’s eyes fell to the floor. The suited man, who appeared to be carrying a handgun on his right hip, then walked up to Ortiz.
“Gabe,” he said in a soft voice. “Just what in the fuck are you doing today?”
Ortiz looked at the man for a moment, trying to place him. Ortiz smiled.
“You know, Killian, you look a lot different without a fucking beard.”
The man in the suit did not smile. “Now, Gabe, that just might be. But you can’t go around making a stink in front of a lot of civilians. You know that.” The suit put his arm on Ortiz’s shoulder and looked at the crowd as his way of reassuring them. “Now come with me and we will just let this all go, okay?”
“But your man has got me all sorts of horny now. I really wanna feel his large, soft hand…”
“Ortiz, stop!” Killian looked left and right. “I thought you CIA spooks were supposed to keep a low profile anyway. You packing? That what this is about?”
Ortiz scoffed. “I am packing, but I have all the paperwork that makes it legal. It isn’t about that.”
“Then what is it, Gabe?”
Ortiz paused.
“I don’t know, Killian. You know how I get sometimes.”
Killian looked at him. He knew exactly what Ortiz was talking about. He served with Ortiz in the cloak and dagger division of the Navy.
“Look, Gabe,” Killian said with a sigh. “I am going to put you in cuffs and take you in the back. Once we get back there, I will release you. Okay?”
“Fair enough.”
Killian loosely put the cuffs on Ortiz, grabbed his things, and escorted him to a windowless room. Once inside, Ortiz slipped the cuffs and handed them back to him.
Killian Johnson ran his fingers though his thinning hair.
“What the fuck, Gabe!?”
“What do you mean, what the fuck?”
“Gabe, you are very lucky I know you. I mean the odds are fucking astronomical. If you had pulled this shit anywhere else, you would be dead or in jail. It would have escalated. Jesus tits, Gabe!” Killian was pacing the room in anger.
“Look, Killian. I am sorry. It’s just that this whole illusion of security gets on my fucking nerves. You know what really maintains security. People like you and me who sneak in the back door and cut the throats of the pieces of shit before they cause trouble.”
Killian rolled his eyes. “Look at you. All philosophical, suddenly. Is the job still getting to you?”
“Fuck you, Johnson. I love my job. Sitting behind a desk, like you.”
Killian rubbed his eyes with his fingers. “Ortiz, I hope you know the huge favor I just did for you.”
“I do.”
“Well, you are fucking welcome, Gabe.”
“Yeah. Thanks.”
“Gabe, get the fuck out of here. Your flight to Mexico leaves soon. If you ever want to talk just call me, don’t come in here spouting shit.”
Ortiz grabbed his things from the desk. He looked at Killian.
“I am sorry, Killian. I really am. Is the public going to see the footage of this ordeal?”
“No, I already have my men erasing the footage. Once again, you are welcome. To you and the CIA. It‘s near the end of my shift so I told that ‘hillbilly’ to dispose of the footage so I wouldn’t have to come back and deal with it.”
“Appreciate it.”
“Gabe, I know you are not sitting behind a desk anymore.”
Ortiz stared at Johnson for a moment but said nothing as he opened his briefcase to ensure everything was still there.
“What makes you say that, Killian?”
“Your passport says Rodriguez. You always used that name on missions. Plus you are not using Agency aircraft for this flight. You are going ghost for this one.”
Ortiz pulled a silenced Ruger P95 from his briefcase and placed two rounds in the heart of Johnson. As soon as Johnson fell to the floor, Ortiz placed a third round in Johnson’s head.
“Johnson,” he said to the bleeding corpse, “you said that the odds of me seeing you today and you helping me through the checkpoint were astronomical. You were right. You see I knew that you would help get me out of a tight spot. You did that many times in the past. You always were as loyal as a dog.
“Now, dog, you have helped me sneak through security on an international flight. Your body will be removed from the premises sometime later on tonight by men who believe they are serving their country. You won’t go missing until after the weekend, by which time I will have returned to the country with lots and lots and lots of money. See, my flight to Mexico isn’t even CIA motivated. I help the cartels beat the borders in exchange for cash.”
Ortiz pulled Johnson’s body behind the desk and grabbed his magnetically coded badge. He then placed boxes around the desk in order to hide the fact that there was a body and commenced to clean up traces of blood in the room.
“Johnson, it was not by chance that we met today. You were a calculated risk and I am the mathematician. You were a disposable asset. You and your ‘security team’ just got played.” Ortiz placed the Ruger back in his briefcase and walked to the door. He looked the room over to ensure that there was no evidence that would clue security on any disturbance throughout the weekend. As soon as Ortiz was satisfied, he turned off the light, exited the room, locked the door with the badge, boarded his flight, and ordered a chilled Vodka.
Twenty four hours later, Ortiz was on the other side of the border, confident that Johnson had not even gone missing, sipping on bottled water inside an elegant mansion. He was scheduled to meet with his contact in exactly seventeen minutes.
On the agenda for the meeting was selling information on how to tap into Border Patrol networks. This provided a wealth of opportunities for his client, and transferred over into a wealth of cash for him. His client would now be able to crash Border Patrol networks, loop visual feeds, and interfere with heat reading technology.
Ortiz was going to make bank today. Plus, he had already forgotten about Johnson.
Johnson who?
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