Nõn was enjoying the food that allegedly had been based in African recipes. It was not, but it was as close as she’d eaten in years. As she enjoyed the anonymity of sitting alone in the airport, she thought about the dream again, trying to push it out of her mind. She looked up and saw that a middle-aged man was staring at her. There was nothing remarkable about him; dark clothing, greying short cropped hair. He stared back, unflinching; she was vaguely aware that he was exceptionally fit for his age and not particularly attractive. His gaze never wavered, and then momentarily the image flipped. She was staring at the wolf, standing in the desert, surrounded by the three pyramids. The image stunned her like a painful flashback she’d years earlier. She was no longer in the restaurant. She was in the desert. Smelling the burning flesh, hearing the gunshots ripping through smoky air. Stunned, she flinched and her fork dropped, and just as quick as the image had appeared, it was gone. The man was walking away, off into the crowded terminal.

  The waitress strolled casually past and asked if she needed anything else. Stunned, she replied, “Yes, I think I’ll try the Rooibos tea, please.”

  “Yes, ma’am, right away.”

  “And a new fork. I seem to have dropped mine.”

  “Of course, ma’am.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  The tea reminded her of her native South Africa, and was a native favorite. She had thought to ask for the customary curdled milk that was added to the tea when she was a child but then changed her mind. She just held the warm cup in her hand and enjoyed its crude dark aroma.

  About a half hour later, she heard the first call for her flight. This old habit died hard; she wouldn’t leave the restaurant until the final call was announced for her flight. A few short minutes later, she heard, “Final call for flight Alaska flight 416 for Spokane, Washington, boarding at gate number five.” Nõn got up and left a tip, paid her bill and walked toward the gate..

  Nõn walked alone down the concourse, her feet lightly echoing on the prefabricated flooring as her weight caused the temporary walkway to shift slightly back and forth. The male steward greeted her at the door and closed it behind her as she walked onto the plane. Finding her seat, she was glad to have an aisle seat this flight. It would be easier to depart the plane once she arrived in Spokane. She scanned the crowd, looking for anyone she might know, or anything she needed to be aware of. She saw neither. She relaxed and sat down, buckling her seatbelt and settling in for the short flight.

  Sitting in the back of the plane, Nick watched as the redheaded black woman boarded the plane. She liked to be last, apparently, and late as well. He was not impressed. Being late was a pet peeve. Too many years of cleaning up other people’s shit storms had made him anally punctual. He had to admit, on time was late in his mind, late was unforgivable. He didn’t like late people. Screw them. The fantasy she’d been a few moments later was gone. She probably didn’t bathe either. Late and filthy, bad combo. He looked out the window. Focus on the upcoming mission. That was what he should be mentally locked onto, like a hellfire missile.

  Approximately an hour later, the plane landed in Spokane. This landing was nothing like the landing she’d experienced in Seattle. Smiling, she quietly whispered to herself, “Excellent controlled crash.”

  Departing the plane, Nõn walked through the much smaller Spokane airport to carousel number two and waited for her luggage to appear. Behind her, Nick walked quietly at a comfortable distance, watching her. He had to admit, she did have a nice ass. Easy thing to do at her age, no real work required to keep it smoking hot; genetics would carry you a long way if you were lucky enough and didn’t eat everything in sight.

  While she waited for the luggage, he walked to the Greyhound bus kiosk and paid for a seat on the next available bus to Moses Lake Washington. The bus would be leaving in an hour. The ticket was twenty-eight dollars.

  He paid the fee and asked how long the trip would be.

  “About two and a half hours, depending on traffic,” he was told.

  He replied, “Fine, that works. Thanks.”

  After her luggage erupted through the heavy black plastic curtain that separated the inner workings of the airport from the comfortable façade maintained for the customers, she waited for it to come to her. Reaching down, she picked it up off the conveyer and removed it. Extending the handle, she turned and began to walk to the Greyhound kiosk. Momentarily, she stopped mid-stride; there was the man from the African restaurant. No weird flipping flashback moment occurred this time as she watched. Her initial thought was, Who is this man? Is he following me? This is too much of a coincidence, she knew that. Life had taught her well there are no coincidences. He was here for a reason. She thought it better to wait and watch as he bought his ticket, and she walked to a nearby concrete post and stood at its edge, watching and assessing him.

  As he paid for the ticket, he suddenly was filled with anxiety; the panic attacks had been frequent lately. He was back in the mix, and this shit had been part of it as well. Living on the edge, training your mind and body to be ready for anything had caused the demons of his past to awaken with glee. Cheerfully, the nightmares had returned to torment him, eviscerated bodies, children burned like they’d been roasted on a spit over a family barbeque, women beaten and mutilated at a rapist’s whim, their only crime being lonely and needing to be needed. The floodgates had opened, and all of it had returned. Nick knew that this too was part of being sharp. He needed these memories to remind him that where he had been and where he was now going were no joke. This wasn’t a digital representation of what happened in the real world. There would be no director to yell, “Cut and save” when the scene was finally correct. There were no second chances, no second takes to get the perfect lighting.

  He instinctively reached for his gun, the conditioned response to reach for the holster well ingrained in his mind. He turned to scan the area around him and saw nothing, no threat. Still, he knew something had queued his anxiety. Looking, scanning back and forth, searching for any sign of a threat. There was none.

  The clerk looked at him apprehensively. “Is everything all right?”

  He didn’t answer. He was too busy scanning, searching. He already knew the clerk was no threat. He didn’t waste time or energy trying to make her “daywalker ass” feel comfortable.

  Nõn saw the quickened pace of his breathing and the sharp, snake-like strike of his right hand as it snapped up, grabbing for an object at his waist that wasn’t there. She instinctively and quickly hid behind the concrete pillar, then began to count to ten. When she reached the magic number, she looked carefully around the opposite side of the pillar and saw he was gone. Searching the area, she saw he was walking to the luggage carousel. He’d been aware someone was watching him; that told her a lot. His movement now as she watched him walk was smooth and fluid. He had either been hunted or had been a hunter. Perhaps both; either way, he was dangerous. She walked to the Greyhound kiosk and bought her own ticket, never thinking to ask about the destination of the man who had been here before her.

  A half hour later, the large silver bus arrived and the driver departed, taking a quick break to stretch and get a drink before the final leg of his assigned route; tomorrow he would do the whole thing again, reversed. It wasn’t the best job he’d ever worked, but he liked being left alone, and this job provided that. He just drove people to their destinations. He didn’t have to interact with them. Other passengers left the bus, and they too took time to stretch and get some air.

  Finally, the time had come to get on the bus. Five passengers walked up the metal stairs and began to look for a seat which they would feel comfortable in. Unknown to the rest of the passengers, two of them were carefully and strategically planning for a fight to the death. There were too many coincidences now to be ignored. Calmly, they each took a seat and ignored the other’s cautious gaze. The next two hours would be tense for both of them. Neither would sleep.

  Going through a checklist in his head, Nick thought about where he first remembered seeing the redheaded woman. There was nothing until the airport restroom. He was sure of that. Her red hair was noteworthy and would have stuck out in his mind.

  She was following him; that was obvious. She was fit as well, and a quick visual check revealed no obvious weapons around her waist or hidden in her bags. If she was armed, it would be subtle. Maybe a knife or modified shiv. He’d sit back and watch, let her leave the bus first so she wasn’t behind him.

  Nõn sat and immediately reached into her bag and retrieved the large ballpoint pen she’d kept there. It wasn’t a knife, but it would do in a pinch. The pen was oversized and metal and had passed through many TSA inspections with ease. No one realized how deadly a simple ballpoint pen could be in a fight. It just never occurred to them.

  An hour later, it occurred to him, what if they were here for the same reason? Wasn’t that the most likely explanation? He closed his eyes and thought about every detail, the food, the restaurant, the type of restaurant, her hair, the refusal to look away as he stared at her. Obviously, she’d been watching him, too. Her body language was now tense, yet fluid like a fighter who had just entered the ring. Loose and explosive, that was how he would describe her movements now.

  Then it came to him, in his research into Muti medicine, it had been mentioned that redheaded blacks were coveted for their magical powers. Sexual organs harvested from an “albino black female,” as they were referred to in South Africa, had tremendous power. He Googled “authors and Muti medicine” on his smartphone and started to read. Finally, after 30 minutes of searching, he found an article that mentioned the author’s name. Nõnkos Zia. Searching the name, he finally found a picture of the author. There she was, his stalker, in color on his smartphone. He read a quick bio of her life, and that told him everything he needed to know. Smiling now, he got up and walked down the aisle to introduce himself. Hopefully, she wouldn’t attack him before he cleared the way between them.

  She could hear him coming up the aisle and readied herself. The attack would be quick and violent; she knew this from experience. Whoever this now walking dead man was, she didn’t care; he’d picked the wrong woman to attack. That would be made very clear to him in a few violent moments.

  He sat quickly and slid his arm around her shoulders as he grabbed her right hand with his own. He felt it was safe to assume she had whatever weapon she carried was in that hand, closest to her enemy; quicker strike that way. In one quick movement, they were now locked in a quiet power struggle, each pushing against the other. In a physical life and death chess match, it was a draw.

  Smiling, he stated, “You’re Nõnkos Zia, am I right?” Her eyes were cold and dark as she glared back at him, saying nothing. Her fury was nearly uncontrollable. “Easy, girl, I’m no threat to you. Listen to me, OK? Please?”

  She said nothing; the pressure of her wrist against his hand was matched by his own. She wouldn’t allow herself to be victimized. She may not win this fight, but she would fight. He would regret this attack.

  He continued. “I’m Nick. I assume you’re aware of me since you’ve been following me since Seattle. At least that’s what I’m assuming, or assumed until a few moments ago. I found you on Google and realized we may be here for the same reason. If I’m wrong, then we can fight it out here on this bus, OK? But for now, can you at least listen to me?”

  She stared at him for several minutes. The pressure on her hand never wavered, and she in turn didn’t relent. He had stamina; she could feel that.

  Finally, she nodded. Yes. She would listen.

  He began, “Let me tell you about a hypothetical situation that may have actually happened,” and he started to tell his story.

  He’d noticed the strange texture of some kind of rope-like crisscross pattern across her shoulder when he slipped his hand across her shoulder and wondered if she’d worn some kind of body armor or vest beneath her light jacket. Weird, he thought she’d made it through customs with a vest. What the hell? TSA has really dropped its guard, he thought as he detailed the past few months of his life. When he finished, he said, “Nõnkos Zia, I’m going to release your hand. Please don’t stab me with whatever you’re hiding under that jacket, OK? Please?”

  She said nothing and waited for him to make the first move. He released her hand as he’d said, and immediately she shoved the pen up to his throat, pressing it against his carotid artery. Breathing rapidly, she glared at him and said nothing. Her eyes never wavered as she glared at him with hate-filled eyes.

  He relaxed. If he was wrong, he was dead; she would kill him, and that was that. No point in wrestling around now. He’d made his move, made the decision, and now it was in her court. Trusting his gut had been a way of survival for too long to stop now; if he was wrong, he would pay dearly. The question remained, had he been wrong?

  Finally she said, “Remove your arm from around my shoulder,” her accent thick and heavy. It wasn’t a request. He pictured a mental image of dark, heavy smoke rolling out of a house fire he had responded to many years ago and thought, Yes, that’s it, that’s what her accent is like, smoke billowing from an invisible fire raging underneath and just out of sight, waiting to explode.

  Finally she withdrew the pen, and the calculated conversation carefully began.

  About an hour later, he was still alive. She was calmer now but still had the pen under her jacket ready.

  They were both quiet for a moment, saying nothing as they processed the information they’d shared. Finally, Nick spoke.

  “Is it safe to say something about this is wrong, very wrong? I mean, the fact that this mission isn’t State Department sanctioned, and yet Jay asked you to observe and report on the mission. Doesn’t make sense, does it?”

  “No, it does not.”

  “So why are you here?”

  Nõn paused for a moment and then quietly said, “Because I have a personal connection to human trafficking. If I have the opportunity to do something about it, I am going to try; sitting back and doing nothing is not acceptable.”

  “Not acceptable? Seriously, you may die on this mission, is that acceptable?”

  Nõn didn’t answer; she’d faced death many times and always found a way to survive. She felt she was on borrowed time anyway; if her guardian hadn’t interfered so many years ago, she would already be dead. She didn’t fear death, neither did she seek danger. She just did what needed to be done.

  “You must have some kind of death wish to be here today.”

  She replied, “No, no death wish; just a mandate, an agreement I made many years ago. A promise I must keep, that is all.”

  He rolled his eyes. “A mandate from who? God? A spirit guide? Jesus? Really? Did you sit in the woods and chant, eat mushrooms, beat on a drum, and wait for a spirit animal to show you the way?”

  She didn’t like the way this man spoke to her, or about her spirit guide. He was rude and condescending. She felt herself getting angry with his lack of respect for her beliefs. Then it hit her, why is that the assumption he came to? Takes one to know one? Perhaps.

  She countered, “Why are you here, then, mister ‘wild card’? Do you really think at your age you have anything meaningful to contribute to an operation like this? Seriously? What is your true motivation? What is your mandate? Honestly, do you buy this ‘wild card’ garbage?”

  Nick looked hard at the driver of the bus and thought. To admit to her why he’d come was difficult. It sounded insane, but the more he thought about it, the more he had to admit he was here for one reason, and one reason only.

  Finally, he replied, “I don’t think you’ll want to know why I’m here. I have no idea what your life experience is. I get hints from the biography I read online that your life hasn’t been easy. You seem to be one of those people who believes in the system, in justice. If that’s true, you won’t understand my reason for being here.”

  Quietly, she replied, “It was not a question; it was a statement, an ultimatum.” He would answer, or this conversation was over. Carefully, she spoke the words again, emphasizing each word. “Why are you here?”

  His eyes glazed over, and he began to speak. “All of my adult life, I’ve tried to do what’s right, right by the system. I was a part of the system, I worked within it. I’m tired of being bound by rules that don’t fit the crime. I don’t want justice anymore. I asked Jay if we’d be taking prisoners, bringing people to justice. He said there will be no prisoners. That’s why I’m here.”

  She watched his face as he spoke and realized what he was saying and what he wasn’t saying, possibly couldn’t say.

  “You are here seeking vengeance?” she said, realizing as she spoke the words what that statement implied.

  He said nothing.

  Overhead, the bus driver announced, “Folks, we’ll be arriving in Moses Lake in five minutes. It would be a good time to prepare yourselves and gather your belongings. Please make sure to check around your seat and in the pockets and magazine holder in the chair in front of you to make sure you don’t lose any items. Thank you for traveling with Greyhound.”

  He ignored her question and said, “Look, we have five minutes. In my world, it’s best if everyone doesn’t know what you know. What I mean by that is I think it’s best if no one knows we’ve spoken, or for that matter even know each other. That way, we’ll get a true read on what’s going on, we can watch out for each other, perhaps pick up on something that’s said or done that wouldn’t have happened if they knew we’d talked. Make sense?”

  She thought about the subtle admission there, carefully hidden in those words, and the idea as well that showing everything to everyone was rarely good. Finally, she nodded and said, “Yes. We will keep this between us.” The statement answered all his questions.

 

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