In an airport. Busy - could be Denver.
Flashes of white. Several gates away, but they're closing in. He drops his carry-on and runs. They're gaining on him. Nobody else seems to see...
Ducking down a hallway. The doors are locked - wait, this one opens. Bathroom. He slams the door behind him, and turns -
They pounce. Slam him back against the door. Quick flashes in the mirror as he struggles - they're pulling his tie off, sliding beneath his shirt. He has short hair, white teeth...
A pair being pulled onto his hands. He yells, then roars. No help shows up. His fingers, trapped as they are, reach for the sky.
They roam all over him. His legs buckle, and he slides down. Arms straight up in the air. He can't budge 'em.
His shoes are pulled off. Then his slacks. No tats anywhere on him...
They ride him for a long time.
Somehow, he gets out of there - barely dressed, hands free again - and stumbles back onto the concourse. And they jump him in front of a newsstand. Ride him right there in the middle of the crowd, which parts around him as if he's not even there. Whooping and howling.
Running out the door, to a rental car lot. He jumps into the first car he can, starts it up, backing up wildly -
Fingers close around his wrists. They slam the brakes and pull him into the back seat, gloving his own hands again. They car shifts and peels out, and he's pinned, hounded by hands everywhere, everywhere. Being driven away.
He flies into an elevator and pounds the buttons - as the hands take hold from behind. Take him down, start in again.
Standing. A reception area. Thick carpet, glass walls. Looking at his reflection, seriously rumpled, hair all wild, cigar between his teeth. Gloves already on his hands.
Behind him, the solid click of the outer door closing.
White shapes behind him, seen in the glass. More, rising up from behind the receptionist's desk.
They grab him, yank off his tie, rip his shirt off. Silk tie, expensive shirt. Two of 'em take his belt off.
The rest start to ride...
He coughs himself awake. Just a dream.
Blinking, he looks around the room. No change, this time. He's lying on the bed, hands cuffed in front. Eventually he looks at the nightstand. There's a half-liter of water. He drains it, coughs some more, and reaches for the cigarettes.
Faint noises to his right, and past the end of the bed. Shuffling, clinking. He blows smoke out of his nose and waits.
A hand cruises up, carrying a pint of whiskey. Over at the shelves, another appears from a box with a tube of ointment. Maybe gel. The right wall is lined with shelves. Dozens of boxes.
Past the bed, the table and chair. Beyond that, a big pile of hardware, leather goods, steel framework.
He scratches his chest idly, not giving a second thought to the solid tattoos.
A glove tosses a can of nuts on the table. Another fishes out a bottle of pills.
They're planning his day.He smokes, watching two handfuls of feathers being set down on the table. They rest on top of the Polaroids... Some taken the first night, when he saw the job assignments. The realization just starting to sink in.
San Diego, confirming he was off to London.
London, verifying he was assigned to San Diego.
He's not anywhere near either place. Wherever this room is, it's hidden well. Perfect double-bind... long-term assignments in two places at once. They'd never check. He wasn't even AWOL, probably. The gloves had seen to it - double-booked him, and sent him a fax. Dallas. Yeah, right. Somewhere within a three-hour drive of Dallas, anyway. Kidnapped, hauled off to some place nobody'd ever look...
And other pics. Just a couple days ago. Sitting up in bed, wrist-cuffs bolted tight to the wall. More leather - vest, chaps, boots. Black t-shirt, black jeans. A joint in his mouth and a thoroughly stoned, expressionless look on his face. Tats everywhere, shaggy hair past his shoulders. Ankles crossed, as if he was just kicking back.
He would never have said it was the same guy in all those photos. Then, and now.
16jul00