So, you read on, and already your life begins to change. Do you feel that prickly feeling on the back of your neck, can you feel that one small shiver slide down your spine? There's no going back. Wherever you are right now, you're a target. The further you dare read, the more dangerous it gets. Make no mistake.
Standing in the bathroom at the very back of the plane, having walked or rather stumbled there, his breath coming in short gasps, Wes stared at himself in the mirror, gathering information the way he would with a stranger. His red-rimmed hazel eyes spoke of little to no sleep, confirmed by the dark shadows under them. Long lashes made disguises easy and bluffing his way out of situations easier. His broad shoulders were well defined under his coat, the shoulders of someone who took physical fitness seriously, while tufts of stylishly messy brown hair cast uneven shadows over the strong jaw and high cheekbones. Beneath the glossy exterior though, the dark shadows contributed more than a deep and troubled persona, combined with the haunted eyes, they spoke of tragedy. Faded almost to nothing on one cheekbone was a fist-shaped bruise, the skin above it a pale green against its natural bronze. This was the sign of a recent physical alteration. Judging by the bruise pattern, position, and coloring, the assailant was around six feet three inches (two inches taller than Wes), left handed, and married. Remembering the source of their disagreement , Wes acknowledged that the man probably wouldn t be married much longer. He hated adultery cases.
Then, of course, there were marks. Barely discernible, but still there. They were calluses and scars, littered on his hands, a sign so familiar, it was instantly recognizable: the sign of a fighter. Right now, he was facing an internal struggle of sorts as he tried not to empty his stomach into the sink. Running a cool hand against his hot forehead, he released both hands grip on the sink, clenching his eyes for second to block out the spinning walls. He would not show weakness. He fought back the nausea and flicked the occupied switch off, eyes still shut. He frowned as it wouldn t move. He reached for the door handle, but a hand, clad in a leather glove worn smooth by years of use caught Wes hand. Wes eyes flew open to assess the situation, his natural curiousity overwhelming his shock and fear.
The man, face still hidden in the shadows of his cap, shook his head. "Don't think about it, Starbright. I have two accomplices ready to start shooting innocents the moment that you make a sound." There was a click and suddenly the cool metal casing of a 9mm glock was pressed against Wes cheek, the edges of the barrel digging into his skin, leaving a mark as though preparing a spot for later, marking its territory.
Wes pictured it, suddenly, his over vivid imagination coloring in the scene. The bullet would leave the chamber, one round out of the thirty possible in the extended clip, and fly around 1300 feet per second, entering the frontal lobe of his brain in a microsecond, the force of the projectile spattering brain matter and skull fragments alike onto the wall behind him like a macabre painting. The soft inner metal of the restroom s walls would catch the bullet then, and it would be over, Wes lying in a crumpled heap on the floor, his life s blood staining the linoleum. Wes swallowed hard. Memories flashed through his head, many of them including the red haired woman. Wait a second his brain encounter an image and a slow smile spread over his face.
"Now, now, Starbright. This doesn t need to be messy All we need is a little information... Some questions is all."
Wes grinned. "First thing first, breath mint? Second thing, you're bluffing."
Above the darkened hollows of the man s eye sockets, one eyebrow was raised.
Wes continued, oblivious. "You see, this is a Boeing 747, fitting approximately four hundred and sixteen passengers in a three class lay out. On the way here, there were approximately six passengers who weren t seated, plus there are approximately five bathrooms excluding the one we are currently in on this plane. All five of those bathrooms had occupied lights on. The math leaves all of the passengers accounted for when you consider other factors. The first class bathrooms, one contained a friend of mine," Wes briefly wondered if Alex could be considered a friend yet, "One contains an elderly gentlemen who was guzzling antacids like beer, who was entering as I passed, one in coach contains a man in first class who s returning to Southern Europe from a vacation, outside of the other, a young mother is waiting impatiently for her three year old son, the one next to ours is simply out of order. That is five of the six, leaving my empty seat as the last. Logically speaking, all of those in the other bathrooms can be excluded from viable threats. In addition, all of the passengers not already accounted for in first class were in various stages of sleep. For various reasons, everyone else in the plane can also be eliminated as threats, which leaves the crew. Excluding you, the airline personnel entered just before the passengers boarded. Though the nametag the woman who was operating the flight roster had listed only her last name, the other attendees greeted her by her first, and were acknowledged. You were the only one who remained silent. That leaves only the captains, neither of whom has exited the cockpit since liftoff. You have no accomplices, and it really is very inappropriate of you to accost me in this manner in a one man bathroom." So, Wes' grin grew. "You said questions would be asked, so I better get started. Who the hell are you?"
Wes managed to hide his emotions much better than his airsickness as he finished his monologue, just in time to see the slightest muscle movement in the man's trigger hand.
Wes acted on impulse, flashing back to his own informal martial arts training, he didn t attempt to knock the gun away, in case the trigger was pulled by accident, which wouldn t be good in such a confined space, but instead hit a nerve in the man s shoulder with a two finger jab. The man dropped the gun and, before it had even clattered to the ground, he grabbed it and hit the man in the face with the butt, knocking him out cold.
For a second afterwards, Wes just stared at the gun in his hand, avoiding looking at the would-be-assassin passed out on the floor. Then he simply groaned, wondering why these things always seemed to happen to him, albeit normally less dramatically.
Turning to leave, he hesitated at the door then turned back around. He had the sudden urge to pee. Ignoring the unconscious man, Wes turned around, lifted the lid, and unzipped his fly. After he was done, he lowered the lid, and hoisted his comatose attacker onto it with a groan, dismantling the gun (How the hell did the man get a gun onto a plane anyways?), and wiping off the prints. Knowing the gun would be useless without it, he tossed the clip. Smiling, he exited, leaving the occupied sign lit, and headed back to his seat.
Passengers please remain seated and fasten your seat belts. The plane will be landing in London in approximately fifteen minutes.
Wes slid into his seat beside Alex, who was staring morosely out of the window. "Hey."
Alex smiled. "Hey."
"What was your phone call about?"
Taking secretive pride in his poker face, Alex pasted on a smile. "Nothing much." Just my future, England's future, and the fate of the free world. The usual. "Where did you go?"
It was Wes' turn to smile. "Nowhere special. I was just feeling a little airsick."
So that was how it began, the web of lies. And like the butterfly effect, it expanded. Repercussions are still being felt in this world. From this point on, I am making a decision that is another example of the butterfly effect. My decision will effect you and all those round you, stealing you from the ignorance the government has created. The Butterfly Effect is only the beginning, the first file of many in a set known as The Stranger and the Spy. Welcome to the world of espionage and intrigue. Welcome to the truth.