A Few Minutes Later

Once I get through the automatic doors that lead into the terminal, I realize that the parking lot was a picnic compared to the circus inside. The main difference between the two is that, on the interior, this crowd also consists of cops. I wish I didn’t have to carry my piece with me. I could get sent away for a while, a long while, if I get tagged with a gun. On the flip side to the coin, I could spend eternity in a box if I’m caught without it.

Walking through the terminal, the sea of people makes me claustrophobic. They’re coming out of the woodwork, running into me, touching me. It’s starting to make me nauseous. With the claustrophobia comes paranoia. I can’t seem to control it as my eyes start scanning the room for danger. I get the feeling something terrible is about to happen. Sometimes it seems that bad news is the only kind of news I’m prepared to hear. Especially in light of recent events. This whole ordeal has thrown me for a loop.

That’s when I see the Asian guy watching me.

Right off the bat I can tell that he’s been trailing me. I can see it in the way he’s standing so obviously nonchalantly, just on the edge of the crowd of travelers. Leaning against a garbage can, magazine held in his hand, no luggage, no one around him. It’s almost as though everyone subconsciously knows that he’s dangerous, so they give him a wide berth as they pass. I have to play it cool. I can’t let him see that I notice him. If I do, he might get spooked and run. Or he might act without thinking. If he’s a professional, he won’t, but I don’t know him from Adam. For all I know, he’s just a regular, run–of-the-mill asshole who’s working for someone. I have to keep moving, looking around the terminal, but, still, I have to keep my attention on him. If I let him slip from my sight, it might be the end of me. That’s the way these things go down. The second I let my guard down at all, he’ll take notice, and like a cobra, he’ll strike. Dammit. I hate my co-workers.

He looks like a tough guy. Everyone in the Asian racket is. None of them look like they could do much harm. That’s where the problem lies. They’re the literal snakes in the grass of this business. Stone cold and willing to do anything. I worked with an Asian once. I saw things that made my stomach churn, stuff I can’t even describe. Don’t get me wrong, he was a great worker. Loyal to a fault, if you ask me. I just don’t ever want to be on the receiving end of that. From the corner of my periphery, I can see that this one’s moving now. He’s following me, pretending he’s not. Gotta keep my eyes on him. Can’t let him slink away.

Then an open palm slaps me on the back of the head.

I wheel around, my hand moving for my sidearm, when my eyes fall on Chenille, standing with an eyebrow cocked. She crosses her arms and taps her foot. We stand staring at each other for a few moments.

“You’re starting to slip in your old age, Levi,” Chenille states with a sigh of discontent. I force a smile and nod. I scan the premises. The Asian is gone. Damn. I had a feeling he was going to be fast, but I never guessed he was going to be that fast. Shit. Now we gotta jet, double time.

“Where are your bags?” I ask Chenille.

She opens her arms out to me. “What? No hug?” she asks. Even with all the shit going on, I can’t help but smile. I give her a hug.

“Good to see you,” I say. “Where are your bags?”

“Seriously, Levi,” she scoffs, patting the carry-on that she has slung over her shoulder, “you’d think there would be some sort of sibling intuition here. I travel light.”

I nod again, and without another word, I move toward the door, keeping my eyes constantly moving around me, waiting for a strike. Chenille follows close behind.

“How are things?” she asks. I haven’t filled her in on what’s been going on. I figured that the phone was not the correct medium for that. I can tell by her voice that she can sense something is awry, but she’s trying to keep things cool. She’s taking in the surroundings, feeling out the playing field. I respect that, mostly because I know that two sets of eyes work better than one.

“Every day aboveground is a good one,” I say over my shoulder as we exit the terminal.