There was panic in the airport. Men and women in suits raced around, searching for the Bezel party. They checked everyone who fit their characteristics. The Patriot Act allowed them to violate everyone’s privacy at the airport without question.
McKenzey screamed at a travel agent. “Check your manifest for any passengers with the last name, Bezel.”
The frightened agent blew her hair from her forehead and typed fast on her keyboard. “There’s four here, sir,” she said. “But that flight left twenty minutes ago.”
The flight was ordered back to JFK and was secured at the terminal. The FBI agents, headed by McKenzey, clogged the jet-way connected to the plane. The plane door opened and McKenzey sped past the flight attendant. Guns drawn, he and his colleagues searched every passenger. Row-by-row, they checked, double-checked, and triple-checked for the Bezel clan. There was no sign of them.
Panic, fear, hatred, defeat all consumed McKenzey. That was not happening. They had to be there. Frustrated, McKenzey ran back to the airline check-in counter.
Agent Dilliard told him, “It’s over, McKenzey. Give it up. Let’s end this quietly.”
McKenzey looked at them with a puzzled expression, as he swiftly grabbed an agent by the neck. He snuggled his bicep around her throat, restricting her air passage.
“You are in an airport, in New York City, home of Ground Zero. One false move and every civilian in here will attack you. You can’t leave, and you’re out gunned.”
McKenzey used his free hand to grab his gun from his waist. He stuffed the barrel of the Calico into the temple of his hostage. She began to sob and shake, and he tightened his grip. He stared at Dilliard and every agent felt his hate. They feared his next move would leave a few dead men in the airport.
“That’s a beautiful toy, you have there. I doubt that is bureau issued?” Dilliard asked.
“Did you think that my arrest would be easy? Whoever gave you this order undoubtedly briefed you on my skill. I bet they swore to you that they had me all figured out, didn’t they? Now look, I have a hostage to get out of here. Doesn’t that make you ponder their ability to lead? You stick to protocol, and let me out of here. Remember the rules of a hostage situation?” McKenzey asked tauntingly.
Dilliard knew the rules, but he also knew that the hostage would be dead if he did not save her from McKenzey’s grip. “Let the girl go, McKenzey,” Dilliard said frankly. “You’ll never get away. You’re no longer an agent. As of this moment you’re suspended of your duties. Hand over your badge and gun. That’s a direct order from the White House.”
“Does that mean that I am a civilian, again? You or those chumps in Washington, you know, the people that are playing your tunes, can’t stop me.”
“It’s true, McKenzey. I’m a piano. George Bush is playing the keys, and if you listen closely, you can hear the fat lady singing.”
“Sir, permission to shoot, sir?” Agent Tyler yelled, with a direct shot of McKenzey.
“Go ahead, Agent Tyler, kill me. They’ll just go on to exploit you and the rest of you fools'.” McKenzey said, and let out a sinister laugh. McKenzey’s head throbbed badly. His face was molten with hatred. He wanted to smash his victim’s face. He envisioned cracking her neck, and after that Dilliard’s too.
An agent lost control. A shot was fired.