Disclaimer: I own nothing
Switched
The airport wasn't overly crowded. At 6am on a Thursday morning, that fact wasn't surprising. Most of the patrons milling about, due to the lack of needing to rush about or push past people, moving at an easy pace, mostly minding their own business, everyone probably at least half asleep.
That probably was why he took notice of the guy in the green sweater.
For one, it was New York in May, so even at the early hour the heat was nearly blistering.
But the man had rushed past, eyes squinted behind thick-rimmed glasses, wearing clothes that had gone out of fashion ten years ago, pulling his sweater tight against his body as if he were cold, gaze intent on the baggage claim sign, blinking sadly above his head.
The man reached the baggage claim, his whole body vibrating with tension, the only movement he allowed himself an impatient tapping of his foot.
It was kind of funny. 100 degrees – wearing a sweater. 6am – in a rush. Impatient – fully in control.
The man had a story, it was obvious. But in an airport, everyone had a story. Everyone was going somewhere.
This man was no different. But his actions made him stick out from the others.
Green eyes watched the man in the green sweater with undisguised interest. As the baggage claim whirred suddenly, coming to life and bringing gifts, the man tensed further, if that was possible. His eyes widened and he scanned each new piece of luggage eagerly, his mouth twitching in irritation as each revealed baggage that seemed to mean nothing to him.
Finally, a brown bag with a shoulder strap and a black buckle was revealed, and the man shot forward, shoving two people out of the way in his haste to reach his bag. Throwing the shoulder strap over one arm and paying no attention to his surroundings, the man took his leave.
Green eyes watched him go, along with the disgruntled looks of the man and woman he'd shoved aside, though the green eyes watched with amusement.
After a moment, he turned back to perusing the baggage claim, surprised to find his bag had appeared when he'd been otherwise distracted.
He grabbed the shoulder strap and slung it over his head, letting the deep brown bag settle against his opposite hip.
Playing with the black buckle on his back absentmindedly, he took his time exiting the airport: he was in no rush.
It was only 6am, for goodness sakes!
Although, in hindsight, if he'd known how his day was going to go, he would've walked a little faster.
The man in the green sweater rounded the corner, eyes intent on the exit, when he noticed something. He slowed his pace, noticed an alcove out of the corner of his eye, and changed direction.
Once in the safety of the alcove, he flipped open the top of his bag, eyes searching out the small red book that would help him exact his revenge.
His heart didn't so much sink as plummet, when he realized the notebook wasn't there.
Neither, in fact, was any of his stuff.
Not the small black pouch that carried the fake facial hair, nor the black cotton mask, or the diagram for a bomb, all of which he'd used to blame a terrorist attack on someone else. Not even the credentials he'd faked, that would help him get close to the man who had the answers he needed.
Instead, the bag housed a bottle of fine wine, a novel in French, dog-eared and obviously well-read, and what smelled like a take-away box filled with tamales.
This was not his bag.
So where was it?
He exited the alcove frantically, eyeing the crowd around him, searching for the thief.
Fortunately for the man in the green sweater, the airport was not crowded.
So he caught sight of the man with the green eyes, wearing a loose gray suit, the suit jacket wrapped over one arm, the sleeves of the white button-up folded to the elbows, one of the mans hands clasping the strap of a dark brown shoulder bag with a black buckle.
He would never reach the thief in time.
But it would be alright: there was no need to panic.
He had a plan.
Tazed
"Excuse me,"
Smiling politely, mere feet from the exit, the light touch on his elbow and the authoritative voice had him turning to face the speaker, a tall security officer wearing a serious expression, two officers standing behind him.
"I'm sorry, but you've been selected as a part of a random search. Would you mind following us to the security office? This will just take a moment."
His polite smile turned into one of confusion, but he simply nodded amiably and followed the officers to a small room that held only a table and two chairs.
"Have a seat," the main officer said. "But first, would you mind allowing one of our men to search your bag while we chat?"
The green eyes darted nervously to his left, but he nodded nonetheless, and with a look, one of the officers carefully carried the bag out of the room.
"Is everything alright?" The green eyes returned to the officer, those eyes worried now.
Instead of answering the question, the man raised an eyebrow. "Can you tell us your name?
"Zach Daniels, sir."
"Occupation?"
"Sports therapist, for the Saints, sir."
"Football?" The officer smiled slightly. "I'm a Seahawks fan myself."
"Patriots," Zach Daniels shrugged. "But don't tell my team that," he grinned, and the officer returned the smile.
"Your reason for visiting New York?" The officer asked, but Zach's occupation had done wonders for the man's gruff exterior; now his questions were asked in a lighter tone, his expression open.
"Just got in to visit some friends; and to try and recover from the game last night." Zach grimaced. "The one we got slaughtered in."
The officer laughed. "A busy night on your end!"
"You're telling me!" Zach joined in with the officer, his worry dissipating. "So," He said suddenly, "Uh, why'd the other officer take my bag?"
"Had an anonymous tip come in about a bomb being delivered in a brown shoulder bag." The officer shrugged lightly as if bomb threats came in every day.
Knowing the airports, perhaps they did.
Zach raised an eyebrow in surprise, but he didn't worry.
He didn't have a bomb in his bag, why would he be worried?
"Don't worry, we're checking every bag that matches the description. I'm sure you're fine."
And just as the guard spoke, his colleague came back, Zach's bag in hand.
"Clear," he announced, and Zach sagged in relief, although he'd already known it would be clear.
He knew what was in his own bag!
And while it was certainly embarrassing, it wasn't a bomb.
The guard handed the bag back to Zach, an eyebrow raised in judgement, and Zach flushed, but gratefully accepted his bag back.
"You're good to go, sir." The guard said gruffly.
"We appreciate you're cooperation," the other guard added. "I hope the Saint's next football game is less violent, Mr. Daniels, for your sake."
And Zach laughed as he was escorted back to the main lobby. "You and me both!" he agreed. "You and me both."
The anger coursing through was so intense, it was nearly tangible in the air.
None of what had just occurred had gone according to plan.
The idiot American guards were supposed to frisk the man right there! They were supposed to show their usual American aggression and upend the contents on the ground: and the thief was supposed to become enraged, and cause a scene, so that, if nothing else, he could've snuck in and at least snatched the crimson journal that was currently so crucial to his plan!
Where had the cordiality come from, the politeness? American's weren't supposed to be capable of either, and YET.
And now the man had left the airport.
Intending to follow, he stepped out from behind the pillar he'd been hiding behind, hand gripping his thief's bag angrily.
"excuse me, sir," a voice spoke directly behind him, and so angry was he that he responded harshly in his native tongue.
"Sir, if you would just follow me," the voice continued, deeper and more cold, the polite tones dropping away.
He didn't turn around, too intent on following the thief, and using a harsher tone, he repeated himself, still in his native tongue.
Instead of another comment, a large hand was physically stopping him from moving forward, and another hand was reaching for the bag.
Enraged, he attempted to whirl around to physically fight the man holding onto him, but suddenly something was pressed against his neck, and bolts of electricity shocked him into silence.
Four hours, a strip search, and an agonizing interrogation done by an American with a horrifying accent later, and he was finally released.
All was not lost: it couldn't be.
For he had heard, as the thief was leaving the airport, one of the idiot American guards say,
"I hope the Saint's next football game is less violent for your sake, Mr. Daniels."
Clues. Oh so many clues.
And clues – they meant hope.
Poor guy...It's just not his day!
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~CLC~