by Leo Romero
“Good, the last thing you need is to be caught short while you’re on the job.”
Dom and Trixie glanced at one another. Dom shrugged.
“Come on,” said Miranda. “I’ve got your car waiting outside.”
They made it to O’Hare and the security was as tight as when they landed from Brazil. Mack was waiting for them inside. Another Agency guy got their stuff through customs and they made their way out to the drizzly runway where a mid-sized, clean plane waited for them.
Mack went ahead and ran a hand along her side like she was his lover. His eyes were wide and bright, his jaw slack. “Hmm hmm. I gotta say, working with you guys means I get to ride some real beauties,” he said over his shoulder.
Dom glanced at Trixie. “That’s er... great to know, Mack,” said Dom.
Mack turned to face them. “Bombardier Challenger 300. Yep, she sure is an absolute beauty.”
“Better not crash it then!” quipped Dom.
“Dom!” Trixie snapped. “That isn’t funny.”
“What?” Dom asked with an exaggerated shrug.
“Don’t worry, little lady, I’d sooner die than crash this baby.”
“Didn’t know you flew planes as well as choppers,” said Dom.
“Got my fixed wings license right after I came back from Nam. Kinda a hobby for a while. See the world.” Mack let out a contented sigh. He tore his gaze from the plane and ran his eyes over both of them. “Where’s your pal?”
“If you mean Troy,” Trixie began, “he’s not our pal.”
“Damn straight,” Dom said.
“And I can’t find him anywhere. Shame, he would’ve been useful.”
“Think you’ll be okay without him?” Mack asked.
“Should be,” Trixie said with a sigh. “We’ve got a good idea of where to start our search this time.”
“Yeah, we learned our lesson on the last job,” Dom said with a rueful grin.
“That’s good to hear. Alrighty, your carriage awaits.”
They got in. The interior was plush; oak paneling, big, comfy leather seats. This was no budget airline service. Dom grinned to himself. “Nice.” Flying in comfort and luxury, a perk of the job. He slumped back in one of the spacious chairs. He stretched his legs as far as they would go.
Trixie got in and took a seat.
“Man, this is nice,” Dom said.
“Cool, huh?”
“Better than the chopper!”
“You can say that again.”
Mack took off. As they left rainy Chicago behind, a sense of sadness dropped into Dom’s heart. He’d been excited to fly down to Mexico, but this time, he didn’t feel that way. They weren’t exactly heading to a top tourist destination. It was a faraway land. A land torn by war. He didn’t really know what to expect. He watched America roll away beneath them in lament. Would he ever see her again?
Dom realized this would be the farthest he’d ever been from the States. He was fast becoming a bonafide globetrotter. He met Trixie’s stare. She smiled at him. Dom smiled back. It was weird. He felt safe when Trixie was around; she was like a safety net. He imagined flying in this plane over these endless waters on his own and he knew, he just knew he would’ve felt a lot more nervous and edgy than he did sitting opposite Trixie. She somehow calmed him. Maybe it was ’cause she’d saved his ass on more than one occasion. He trusted her. Or maybe it was something else. Something deeper.
He closed his eyes. He didn’t wanna be thinking about stuff like that right now. Things were moving too rapidly for reflection or for introspect. He needed to be alert, ready to go from one chaotic scene to the next. If he was stuck in ‘thinking’ and ‘feeling’ then he’d likely get his ass handed to him. But he couldn’t escape it. Spending so much intimate time with Trixie—intimate in the sense that they were always together and suffering the same emotions of loss, gain, fear, dread, excitement, horror, elation—it wasn’t easy to avoid the inevitable; that a bond was being created with every emotion and every experience they shared. And he realized the only one he hadn’t shared with her: love. Is that what he wanted? Is that what she wanted?
He groaned to himself and rubbed his head.
“What’s wrong with you?” Trixie asked.
Dom’s eyes flicked open. He met her concerned face. “Nothing,” he said with a shake of his head and a flip of the hand. “You know how I feel about air travel.”
Trixie rolled her eyes. “Have a Bud. It might calm you down.”
Dom looked to his right; bottles of Bud ready and waiting in a minibar. It was tempting. He sighed. “I’ll think I’ll just catch some sleep instead.”
“Think I’ll join you.”
Dom sprawled out on the comfy seats, closed his eyes. In no time, he was fast asleep.
After a stop off at London, Heathrow, they were back in the air and crossing Europe into the deserts of the Middle East. As they descended into Baghdad, Dom was wide awake, while Trixie was catching up on her beauty sleep. It was a clear and bright day; picture perfect. They landed on the runway, the jolt bringing Trixie out of her sleep. She looked around her with groggy eyes. Dom stared out of the window with stern eyes. Ever since they got close to the runway, a bad feeling started to rise inside his stomach. This was a hostile place. A place of strife, torn by warfare and religious extremism. There wouldn’t be any friendly entourage awaiting them like when they first landed in Mexico. Okay, Alicia and the boys greeted them with the barrels of their guns, but once everything cooled, they all got on like a house on fire. And then they all worked together in hunting Magdalena. Dom knew that wouldn’t be the case here. This was a smash and grab job. Get in, kill Rah, grab the relic, get the hell out. Don’t stay any longer than necessary.
There were no friends here.
Mack rolled the plane around the runway and came to a halt. “Okay, guys,” he said through the plane’s intercom, “welcome to Baghdad. Enjoy your stay.”
“We’ll try,” Dom replied as he unclipped his seat belt.
Trixie rubbed her eyes.
“You getting a weird feeling about this?” Dom asked her as she unclipped her own belt.
“You mean like a feeling of dread?”
“Pretty much.”
“I always do.”
“No, it’s worse this time. I don’t know if we’re up to this one.”
Trixie faced him, her eyes wide. Dom looked into those green eyes and he somehow felt better. Stronger.
“We’ll be all right, Dom,” she told him. “Get your stuff.”
Dom grabbed his chest. “Well, thank God for that,” he said half in irony. He was actually starting to believe it.
They grabbed their stuff and got out. The sun blazed down on the tarmac, turning the place into a furnace. It was a different heat to South America. Hot, yeah, damn hot, but drier. There was a lack of humidity to the air that was present in Mexico and especially Brazil. It was dry and baking, not cloying. It was like being a gingerbread man in the oven, drying out. Already Dom was thirsty; he found himself having to reach for the bottle of water he grabbed from the minibar.
Mack stepped out onto the runway. “I’ll have to make a round trip, guys,” he told them with an apologetic shrug. “We don’t have jurisdiction to wait here. You’ll either have to make your own way out, or give me advance warning.”
“Great,” Dom said, before taking another sip of water.
“Can’t Dad sort something?”
“No can do, little lady. This country’s under siege by Islamists. We were lucky to get in. Most flights are banned.”
“Okay, Mack.”
Mack saluted them. “Be careful, kids. Okay?”
“Will do, Mack. We’ll call you once we need to get out.”
“I’ll need a half day to get here. But I can get here quick if need be. All right?”
Trixie nodded. “No problem.”
Mack gave them a resigned look and sent them both a warm smile. “You two take care out here, okay?”
“Thanks, Mack,” said Trixie.
“Don’t worry, Mack, we’ll be outta here in no time,” said Dom.
Mack nodded, his eyes rolling down to the ground. “I’ll see ya,” he said and climbed back into the plane.
Dom hitched his bag up on his shoulder and had another sip of water. “Looks like it’s just me and you, Trix.”
“So, what’s new?’ Trixie said. “Come on, let’s get inside and look for the Agency guy.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The airport was a ghost town. Barely anyone was checking in or out, and the majority of them were suits. Oil men, Dom thought to himself. The leeches of society. Vultures who just couldn’t help themselves.
Armed guards patrolled the area, some Iraqi, some Western. The two armies had joined forces against Global Jihad, protecting one set of bloodsuckers from the people fighting for another.
A voice rang out on the loudspeaker that to Dom sounded like gargles at the back of someone’s throat. Over on the wall was a red swirl of Arabic writing, which made about as much sense to him as those zeros and ones that made up the Matrix.
“That looks like our guy,” Trixie stated, indicating the clean cut, middle-aged Arab in the gray suit. He met Trixie’s stare, then pointed at her.
He came over. “Ms. Beauchamp?” he asked.
Trixie grinned. “The very same,” she replied in a pleasant tone.
“Ah, good,” the man said with a smile. “I’m Yusuf.”
“You from the Agency?” Dom asked.
Yusuf rolled his eyes. “Er...”
Dom nodded in understanding. “Yeah, I get it. The first rule of the Agency is not to speak about the Agency.”
“That is correct,” Yusuf replied and pursed his lips. “Sun Enterprise requested my assistance,” he informed them.
“That’s right,” said Trixie.
“It’s just you two?”
“Yeah.”
Yusuf wiggled his fingers on the air. “What do you have on you?”
“Loads of guns,” Dom said.
Yusuf flicked nervous eyes his way.
Dom grinned.
“He’s just joking,” said Trixie. “We’ve just got Sun dart guns standard issue and dart magazines.”
Yusuf calmed. “Okay, that shouldn’t be a problem. Just follow me, please.”
He led them to the passport control counter where a young Iraqi in trendy glasses was waiting. Yusuf stepped up to him and began speaking in the harsh, throaty sound of Arabic. A heated discourse ensued, remonstrating on both sides, while Dom and Trixie stood there like a couple of lemons. The young Iraqi in the glasses kept crossing his hands over one another and shaking his head.
“I don’t think he’s gonna let us through,” Trixie said out the side of her mouth.
Dom nodded in agreement, taking another sip of water.
Yusuf briefly turned back to face them both and raised his hands in the air in exasperation. Glasses Guy looked Dom and Trixie over, his face pinched, his mouth scrunched up. He crossed his arms over his chest and lifted his head so his nose was in the air. He’d made his decision and that was final.
With a sigh of resignation, Yusuf reached a hand inside his jacket pocket and pulled out a wad of cash. Trixie rolled nervous eyes toward Dom. Dom froze, the bottle of water up to his lips. He watched proceedings, his heart beating hard. Was Yusuf actually gonna bribe this dude? No way? He prayed no soldiers were watching.
Glasses Guy took a quick look left and right, and snatched the money. He stuffed it down his pants, and opened up the gate.
Yusuf straightened both his suit, then his hair. “Have a nice day,’ he said to Glasses Guy. Glasses Guy ignored him; he was too busy hastily ushering Dom and Trixie through.
“We got there in the end,” Yusuf said to them both as they went past.
“Money talks, my friend,” Dom said, replacing the cap on his bottle of water.
“In this part of the world, it definitely does,” Yusuf retorted with lament.
Glasses Guy was keen to get them through the gate, constantly looking left and right. Once they were through, he slammed the gate shut and retook his position as if nothing happened.
Dom glanced at Trixie and shrugged.
“At least we’re through,” Trixie said.
“Now what?”
“We check out Baghdad.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Trixie bought a black female headdress from a store inside the airport and wrapped it around her head. Dom put on his cap. They didn’t want to draw attention to themselves; it was best to try and blend in as much as possible. They got outside and hailed a cab. The driver was a young guy in shades and a cool-cut black shirt with the cuffs rolled up. He had the air-con running full pelt, cooling Dom off in an instant. On the radio was a lively pop song with funky beats and pleasant female Arabic vocals.
“Where you go to?” the driver asked, turning down the music.
“Take us to the Al-Hurria Palace,” Trixie answered.
“No problem.” He pulled away. “You American right?”
“That’s right,” Trixie answered.
The driver lifted his hands up in surrender. “You not going to bomb me, are you?”
Trixie frowned. “Of course not.”
“Only joking!” the driver said with a huge grin. “American military A-Okay!”
Dom rolled his eyes.
“There a big military presence here still?” Trixie asked.
“Most gone,” the driver told her. “Now jihadi take over. Government forces not strong enough against them.”
“Baghdad is safe though right?”
“It’s okay for now. This is where most Iraqi soldier is. But, outside Baghdad.” He puffed his cheeks. “It’s crazy.”
Dom and Trixie glanced at one another.
“Jihadi is you know, Wahhabi?” the driver asked.
“Wahhabi,’ Trixie echoed with a nod of her head. “We know.”
“Yeah. They Sunni. I’m Shi’ite. You know Sunni and Shi’ite?”
Dom frowned.
Trixie nodded. “Yeah, Muslim factions fighting each other. Kinda like the Republicans and the Democrats.”
The driver laughed. “Ha ha. Except jihadi kill people.”
“Like I said: Republicans and Democrats.”
The driver laughed. He pointed at the rear-view. “Why you go to Al-Hurria. Nothing there. How you say, abandoned?”
“We’re doing a bit of sightseeing,” Dom told him.
The driver rubbed his chin. “People no come to Baghdad now for sightseeing. I think you, how you say, oil speculator.”
A puzzled look landed on Dom’s face.
Trixie shook her head. “No, we’re not oil speculators. We’re just tourists.”
The driver began rubbing his chin and nodding. “Ah, I know,” he said with a grin. “I think you are both agents. CIA. Western intelligence. MI5. Mossad. Am I right?”
Trixie let out an exasperated breath. “Is it that obvious?”
The driver gave her a vehement nod. “For sure, yes.”
Trixie leaned forward in her seat. “What’s your name?”
“Hassan.”
“Well, Hassan, you got us figured. We’re CIA. And we’re also international assassins. So, I think it’s best if you keep quiet about ever seeing us. Okay?”
“For sure, my lips is zipper. Okay?”
Trixie leaned back. “As long as we understand each other, friend.”
“A-okay!” the driver said with another grin before he turned the music back up. That female Arabic voice came on again. Dom didn’t understand a word. He looked out of the window. The highway leading from the airport was lined with palm trees. To his surprise, most of the sings they passed were in English, something he’d noticed on his travels. English was everywhere, which was good for him, but he wondered how the locals felt about that. He thought about asking Hassan, but decided not to. He didn’t wanna get that guy talking again, o
r he might never stop.
He sat back and soaked in the sights, which wasn’t much beyond cloudless blue sky and palm trees. The music carried on relentless; a modern blend of Western electronic beats and old style local vocals. As the music played, the highway soon ended and civilization began. The streets of Baghdad were a bumper-to-bumper clogged artery, the gas-stained air and heated tarmac a miasma of congestion. Kids with dirty faces armed with spray bottles and rags were busy dodging traffic, wiping down windshields in a frenzied manner in the hope they’d be slung a few coins just to make them go away. Car horns rang out like a disjointed chorus, interrupting the flow of the music still playing on Hassan’s stereo.
Dom gazed around him in bewilderment. The whole place somehow reminded him of South Side Chicago. Wherever there was poverty, it was the same deal. Traffic jams, kids begging, run-down housing. It always got to him. He wanted to make a difference, wanted to help the more unfortunate. Maybe what he and Trixie had been doing would help. Then again, maybe it wouldn’t make even a dent in the human condition. But, it was worth a try.
Hassan belted out his car horn. “Come on! Come on!” he shouted at the row of cars ahead of him.
Trixie looked around. “How far is the Palace?”
“Far,” Hassan answered. “Other side of Baghdad, on outskirts.”
“There a hotel around here?”
“Should be one in one of those side streets.”
“Thanks. I think we’ll get out here.”
Hassan shrugged. “Up to you.”
Trixie turned to Dom. “Let’s go get a room.”
Dom let out a faux gasp. “Trixie. I thought you’d never ask.”
“Cute. Come on.” She opened the door, allowing the noise from outside—the car engines, the car horns, the street vendors—to float inside.
“How much?” Dom asked Hassan.
“Three thousand, my friend.”
Dom stared at the cash in his hand. Dinar. It all meant nothing to him. He shrugged and just handed the whole lot to Hassan. “Here. Keep the change.”
Hassan’s eyes lit up. “Ahhh,” he gasped. “Thank you, thank you.”