by Captain Sammitch and Chewy Walrus
La Perdita International Airport:
"Will this be your first visit to New Orleans, Mr. Krycek?" the TWA employee asked from behind the ticket counter.
"Yes, it will," the man replied from behind his dark sunglasses. His khaki shorts, Hawaiian shirt, and bucket hat betrayed his tourist status almost as much as the bulky camera he wore around his neck. "I have not seen very much of the Southern United States, and I would like to add it to my travels before I return home."
"What do you do for a living?" the clerk asked as she scanned Krycek's luggage with the X-ray machine.
"I am the head coach for the Czech Republic national hockey team," Krycek replied. "I am touring the Caribbean and parts of the U.S. before I return to begin training camp for our players."
"That's impressive," the ticket clerk lied. She handed Krycek his boarding pass. "Have a safe flight."
Krycek thanked her, then headed down the concourse and stopped by the men's restroom. He noticed that it was empty as he went to wash his face in the mirror.
Krycek looked in the mirror and smiled. Phil Smith's face smiled back at him.
I should do this more often.
Somewhere over the Caribbean:
The flight attendant with the drink cart moved down the aisle, taking orders and delivering service with a smile, as per usual. She stopped to talk to Krycek, the Czech hockey coach. "Is there anything I can get you, sir?" she asked.
Krycek was in the middle of falling asleep. "No, thank you," he replied. The people on either side of him were already sound asleep. "I think I will get some rest," he said as he pulled his bucket hat over his eyes.
The stewardess smiled and moved on. She took a few more orders and looked back.
Apparently, Krycek had switched seats with someone else fairly quickly, because there was a man sitting in his seat with spiky brown hair wearing khaki pants and a black shirt, sound asleep. The stewardess shrugged it off and proceeded down the aisle.
New Orleans Regional Airport:
Krycek strode down the walkway with his carry-on bag in tow. He headed for the men's room and ducked inside. Phil Smith walked out of the restroom a few moments later. He hadn't encountered any of Gambini's stooges since the two he had run into as Krycek at La Perdita International, but he figured he would still have to be careful, since the mobster was guaranteed to have a few more sets of eyes around this close to his hostages.
The Krycek identity had been good enough to get him through security at two major airports, but it would still arouse a little suspicion if the same Mr. Krycek kept popping up all over the place. The mobsters hadn't seen him at LPI, and Phil Smith was dead as far as every law-enforcement department in the U.S. knew, so he might as well be himself for a little while. If someone became suspicious, there were tons of other people he could pass himself off as -- and without going through all the trouble of putting on an actual disguise. If you controlled what people saw when they looked in your direction, then you could be anyone.
Phil exited the terminal and hailed a cab.
"Where you headed?" the cab driver asked.
Phil thought a moment. "The airport Ramada," he said finally. He handed the cabby a dollar bill. "Hopefully you can get me there in a hurry."
The cabby's eyes widened. "A hundred bucks for a ten-mile ride?"
Phil smiled. "Let's just say I have an important meeting to catch."
The driver floored the gas and peeled out of the cab lane.
Grissom Montag had landed his private F-22 Raptor (which he nicknamed the Dust Devil) at the New Orleans Regional Airport almost forty-five minutes ago. After running a few check-outs with airport security and renting a hangar, he was able to get a good look at some of Gambini's goons. It was hard to miss them, really.
The two large gentlemen were standing in the terminal receiving from La Perdita with oily hair and pinstripe suits, looking obviously at pictures and comparing them to the passengers coming off the plane. He kept his head down as he made his way to the airport bar to hit on the pretty waitress.
Which is where he sat now, downing his second hellfire and damnation and trying his absolute best to wow the waitress with his rapier wit and boyish charm.
"How 'bout another?" Griss asked, winking at the cute blonde standing behind the counter.
"Wow, man," the waitress whistled, readying the ingredients again. "I've never seen anyone drink down a hellfire like that and keep coming back for more!"
Griss smiled and rolled his eyes. "Well, it's not all that bad. What's in 'em, anyway?"
"Equal parts tequila, vodka, scotch, O.J., and tabasco," the girl rattled off, pouring the contents of a bottle into a shot glass.
"Well, it may be a bit warm," Griss started, "but hot as it is, it can't hold a candle to you."
The girl smiled and replaced the bottle, producing a new one. "I hope you don't plan to get anywhere with a line that bad..." she said, winking at Grissom.
"Not really," Grissom said, shrugging his shoulders and putting a fifty on the counter. "However, in the event that you should change your mind, feel more than free to give me a call."
The woman put a splash of tabasco in the glass and eyed the fifty. "And how, exactly, am I supposed to do that? Did you write your number on President Grant?"
"Wait a minute," Grissom said, reaching slowly behind the girl's ear. "Looks like you've got something hidden back here."
As he began to pull his hand away, one of his business cards materialized in his hands. On the front it read, Grissom Montag: Sandcrawler Security, while his mobile number had been scribbled on the back.
"There you go," Grissom said, slipping the card between her fingers and picking up the shot glass. "Wouldn't want you to run off without it." With that, he winked at the waitress, downed his third hellfire and damnation, and made his way toward the rental place, still as sober as he could be.
The bartender smiled as she eyed the phone number on the back of the card. "You're not anything special, Montag," she said, putting the number in her pocket. "But why do I feel like I should give you a call tonight?"