Vincent stepped off the stairs leading up to the private jet and onto
the tarmac of Francis International Airport. A barrage of smells assaulted
his nostrils; the reek of an over-polluted sea, the stink of burning tires
and the stench of blood. It was pervasive, the kind of smell that God
himself with a couple thousand bars of Lava soap couldn't remove. He was in
Liberty.
"Daddy's back!" He exclaimed.
Vincent was a medium-sized guy, weighing in at about 190 lbs. and 6 feet 3 inches, he wasn't a giant, but he carried his weight as if he was. Although he never really thought himself handsome, the ladies usually did, so he didn't mind. He was articulate, able to roll with the best of the orators, yet he still had the ability to tone it down to communicate effectively with everyday folk. Never did Vincent compromise, people knew not to mess with him. One look and people realized that trifling with Vincent was like kickboxing an ostrich: one bad fucking idea. All the better, he thought as he smiled, bearing his pearly white teeth. His dark brown hair cut at a medium length swayed gently in the sea wind. His broad shoulders filled his black suit nicely, his snow white collared shirt unbuttoned, opened ruggedly and without a tie. This will be fun, he thought.
Agent Vincent Gannon was a member of the Central Intelligence Agency, he was a spook. Although he was at the "tender" age of 28, he had already accumulated quite a record at the Agency, and not for his lack of indiscretion. He was branded "The Cowboy" for his rash, yet usually successful decisions. He had run every kind of op, from the smallest rescue to a few world saving efforts. Although most, if not all of his missions would never see the light of day, he took satisfaction in knowing that his job did matter, despite its sometimes messy nature. At least I got a fun assignment this time, he thought, I deserve it after that shit in Columbia.
The "mission" was a stretch, even for the CIA. In reality, he had more or less won the assignment, it was a paid vacation of sorts. And all on the Agency's dollar, thought Vincent. It was simple, meet up with an equally successful British Military Intelligence agent, and "investigate" a possible mob connection to the drug trade. The Agency had already informed him that the connection was most likely non-existent, the mission was meant solely as a reward, and to further cement international relations. If nothing else, it would be nice to see Thomas Moore again, Vincent mused. Thomas was the British connection, and not a stranger to Vincent. The two had run various missions before, including a particularly dangerous one during the British release of Hong Kong. The two agents were always in competition, it was a matter of national pride. Neither was willing to admit that the two nations might have equally good intelligence agencies. They were always willing to do whatever it takes to prove which was the best of the red, white, and blues.
"Ahem, Vincent Gannon?" A nearby woman porter asked.
"Yes?"
"Excuse me, but your car is waiting for you," the porter said meekly as she pointed across the tarmac to a red Banshee.
Beautiful, thought Vincent as he began to walk towards the automobile. The porter fell into step behind as the spy surveyed the landscape. Barely able to make out the shapes because of the setting sun, he noticed a gathering of military equipment; helicopters, jeeps, and even what appeared to be replica of the Enola Gay. "Thanks. What's up with all of Uncle Sam's toys?" Vincent asked.
"Oh, those. I'm not sure, um I think we're having maybe an air show or something?" The porter replied with confusion. "Oh, my bad, I have a message for you too. Some army guy dropped it off I think." The porter extended her hand, offering the sealed envelope to the spy.
"Thanks sweetie," Vincent replied, reaching for the envelope and drawing a smile from the young airport worker. Vincent reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew a jackknife as the porter scurried away to the next plane. So young, Vincent thought, and what a shitty job to take to pay the bills. He immediately cut open the envelope, exposing a letter, a stuffed billfold, and a set of keys, presumably for the Banshee. Standing on the black runway stained with 747 tire marks, he read:
Agent Gannon:
You did a damn fine job in Columbia. That'll keep us in control of the supply for a while. You earned this one cowboy. It should be fun. Sorry it isn't Miami, but let me assure you, Liberty is not lacking in entertainment. There should be $100,000 in the fold, blow it all in one place. I also took the liberty of putting you on the VIP list of Kenji's Casino, loose slots and loose girls son, the hottest spot in town. The car's yours too, it's bullet proof and we did a little engine work on it, just for you. You just remember to show up for the meeting with that limey spook. He's expecting you at the Bedford Point Entrance to the underpass, Bedford Street and 7th at 1:15 AM. You guys just need to check out a lowlife named Joey, some smalltime crook, he's staying at the Olympic Hotel in Staunton, easy shit, especially for you. DON'T MAKE THIS INTO MORE THAN IT IS! Just check out this Joey character, get drunk and get some ladies. Don't you fuck up this town like you did Paris, did you know those surrender monkeys want the Statue of Liberty back after that episode! We can't have anymore of that, so take it easy. Even cowboys get a day off.
Have Fun,
Director Clark
Have fun? Is that how we do things these days? Vincent thought. Well, who cares? The spook walked casually to his CIA issue Banshee and fired up the engine. "I have $100,000 dollars, a fast car, and a front-of-the-line pass at a casino, this will be fun," declared Vincent as he tore out of the airport. He calmly downshifted as he ripped through a green light and sped across a lift bridge towards Staunton Island.
"Daddy's back!" He exclaimed.
Vincent was a medium-sized guy, weighing in at about 190 lbs. and 6 feet 3 inches, he wasn't a giant, but he carried his weight as if he was. Although he never really thought himself handsome, the ladies usually did, so he didn't mind. He was articulate, able to roll with the best of the orators, yet he still had the ability to tone it down to communicate effectively with everyday folk. Never did Vincent compromise, people knew not to mess with him. One look and people realized that trifling with Vincent was like kickboxing an ostrich: one bad fucking idea. All the better, he thought as he smiled, bearing his pearly white teeth. His dark brown hair cut at a medium length swayed gently in the sea wind. His broad shoulders filled his black suit nicely, his snow white collared shirt unbuttoned, opened ruggedly and without a tie. This will be fun, he thought.
Agent Vincent Gannon was a member of the Central Intelligence Agency, he was a spook. Although he was at the "tender" age of 28, he had already accumulated quite a record at the Agency, and not for his lack of indiscretion. He was branded "The Cowboy" for his rash, yet usually successful decisions. He had run every kind of op, from the smallest rescue to a few world saving efforts. Although most, if not all of his missions would never see the light of day, he took satisfaction in knowing that his job did matter, despite its sometimes messy nature. At least I got a fun assignment this time, he thought, I deserve it after that shit in Columbia.
The "mission" was a stretch, even for the CIA. In reality, he had more or less won the assignment, it was a paid vacation of sorts. And all on the Agency's dollar, thought Vincent. It was simple, meet up with an equally successful British Military Intelligence agent, and "investigate" a possible mob connection to the drug trade. The Agency had already informed him that the connection was most likely non-existent, the mission was meant solely as a reward, and to further cement international relations. If nothing else, it would be nice to see Thomas Moore again, Vincent mused. Thomas was the British connection, and not a stranger to Vincent. The two had run various missions before, including a particularly dangerous one during the British release of Hong Kong. The two agents were always in competition, it was a matter of national pride. Neither was willing to admit that the two nations might have equally good intelligence agencies. They were always willing to do whatever it takes to prove which was the best of the red, white, and blues.
"Ahem, Vincent Gannon?" A nearby woman porter asked.
"Yes?"
"Excuse me, but your car is waiting for you," the porter said meekly as she pointed across the tarmac to a red Banshee.
Beautiful, thought Vincent as he began to walk towards the automobile. The porter fell into step behind as the spy surveyed the landscape. Barely able to make out the shapes because of the setting sun, he noticed a gathering of military equipment; helicopters, jeeps, and even what appeared to be replica of the Enola Gay. "Thanks. What's up with all of Uncle Sam's toys?" Vincent asked.
"Oh, those. I'm not sure, um I think we're having maybe an air show or something?" The porter replied with confusion. "Oh, my bad, I have a message for you too. Some army guy dropped it off I think." The porter extended her hand, offering the sealed envelope to the spy.
"Thanks sweetie," Vincent replied, reaching for the envelope and drawing a smile from the young airport worker. Vincent reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew a jackknife as the porter scurried away to the next plane. So young, Vincent thought, and what a shitty job to take to pay the bills. He immediately cut open the envelope, exposing a letter, a stuffed billfold, and a set of keys, presumably for the Banshee. Standing on the black runway stained with 747 tire marks, he read:
Agent Gannon:
You did a damn fine job in Columbia. That'll keep us in control of the supply for a while. You earned this one cowboy. It should be fun. Sorry it isn't Miami, but let me assure you, Liberty is not lacking in entertainment. There should be $100,000 in the fold, blow it all in one place. I also took the liberty of putting you on the VIP list of Kenji's Casino, loose slots and loose girls son, the hottest spot in town. The car's yours too, it's bullet proof and we did a little engine work on it, just for you. You just remember to show up for the meeting with that limey spook. He's expecting you at the Bedford Point Entrance to the underpass, Bedford Street and 7th at 1:15 AM. You guys just need to check out a lowlife named Joey, some smalltime crook, he's staying at the Olympic Hotel in Staunton, easy shit, especially for you. DON'T MAKE THIS INTO MORE THAN IT IS! Just check out this Joey character, get drunk and get some ladies. Don't you fuck up this town like you did Paris, did you know those surrender monkeys want the Statue of Liberty back after that episode! We can't have anymore of that, so take it easy. Even cowboys get a day off.
Have Fun,
Director Clark
Have fun? Is that how we do things these days? Vincent thought. Well, who cares? The spook walked casually to his CIA issue Banshee and fired up the engine. "I have $100,000 dollars, a fast car, and a front-of-the-line pass at a casino, this will be fun," declared Vincent as he tore out of the airport. He calmly downshifted as he ripped through a green light and sped across a lift bridge towards Staunton Island.