Michael stood in line at the Heathrow Airport security check point. What's taking so long? He glanced at his watch again and sighed. A sense of loss weighed him down; he missed how she felt in his hands—the sleek lines of her form and smooth exterior. As the line shuffled forward, he caught sight of what he longed for; what completed him.
A weapon.
The fact that this particular gun came attached to an Air Marshal was only a minor problem. He preferred a Sig Sauer, but any 9mm could fill the void, for now anyway.
He ducked into a bathroom behind a man he'd followed since spotting him in the security line. The non-descript man had been given a pass around the metal detectors and shared a laugh with one of the guards. An Air Marshal for sure. Although, the sky cop was probably well trained in hand-to-hand combat, the U.S. government made sure Michael was more skilled.
Three minutes later, Michael peered around the door. One quick over-the-shoulder glance, to make sure the man was still out cold, and he emerged from the bathroom with a small duffle in hand and a set of bruised knuckles. He pulled his baseball cap down over his eyes and blended in with the masses.
Oh, man, he couldn't wait to get back to the States.
Michael stretched his long legs under the seat in front of him. After his failed mission to Russia, all he wanted to do was relax on the connecting flight across the pond. "...Ladies and gentlemen, please fasten your seatbelts, we may encounter light to moderate turbulence as we fly around a storm cell..."
The plane jostled its passengers and rattled the overhead compartments. The woman seated next to him gasped and white-knuckled the armrests. He yawned. Turbulence put him to sleep. Familiarity shone in her expression. He rolled his eyes. Guess that last gold medal immortalized him forever.
"Aren't you that Olympic—"
"Nope. I get that a lot." He angled his face away from her scrutinizing gaze. Leave me alone lady. He sighed and glanced heavenward.
Nothing about this assignment had been routine. He was just supposed to make contact with the undercover and steal a cell phone with bank account information, used to fund a terrorist organization, from someone named Katja. Timmons had promised that everything would go as planned. What a load of crap; he couldn't even find Nikoli. The whole operation was a shit show from start to finish. He ran his hand down the front of his leather jacket. The carbon fiber gun he'd taken from that Air Marshal back in the airport bathroom, was snuggly inside his breast pocket.
He rose from his seat for a sweep of the cabin. A thick-bearded man eyed him with a dark expression that crept over his skin like fire ants. Michael cocked his head side-to-side, covering up a shiver; he recognized the man. God, he really wished the silencer wasn't stashed away in his carry-on.
"Excuse moi."
Michael turned and found a breathtaking red-haired woman behind him. Ahhh... "Um, yeah. Sorry." He swallowed and moved toward the front of the plane and parked between the lavatories. His tennis shoes squeaked on the grey rubber floor. She sat next to the bearded dark-expression man. Who, without taking his eyes off Michael, kissed the woman's temple. She turned into him. He whispered something in her ear that brought a half-smile to her face. Michael's eyes traveled down her slender legs. Jesus. Even in skinny jeans, she looked fantastic, and the platform pumps didn't hurt either. The gold from her anklet glinted in the overhead lighting. He exhaled slowly and imagined running his hands over her curves. Quit it.
After pretending to use the bathroom, Michael wandered back to his aisle seat. He grabbed his bag from the overhead bin, sat down and placed it between his feet. His hand met with the cool silencer inside the luggage. His large hand concealed the item. He waited thirty minutes. "I shouldn't've had that last drink," he said to his row mate and headed to the back of the aircraft for another fake piss break.
