Free The Killing House by Chris Mooney

where I was yesterday. There are at least, what, a dozen witnesses who can tell this agent I was -
    Something sharp pierced his lower thigh. Startled, he swung around in his seat, knocking his head against the side window as a hot and stinging liquid flooded his muscle; FBI Agent Clouzot had stuck a needle into his leg, and her thumb was pressing down on the plunger of a syringe.
    He tried to twist away, his shins slamming into the glove box. The woman reached up, grabbed him by the back of the neck and sent his face crashing down against the console separating the two seats.
    The impact broke his nose. Jimmy felt it crack, heard the sound boom through his head, certain that bone fragments were flying through his brain. His eyeswatered, and blood poured out of his nose and down his throat, and he kicked underneath the glove box. He couldn't move his head; the FBI agent was placing all of her weight down on his neck, like she wanted to snap it. With his face smashed against the console, Jimmy let out a garbled scream, spitting blood against a brown leather sunglasses case.

18
    As a federal fugitive, Fletcher no longer had the luxury of commercial flight. In the wake of 9/11, the Transportation Security Administration, the government agency responsible for safe air travel, had been moved under the Department of Homeland Security. His visage, fingerprints, age-progressed photographs and other distinguishing characteristics were stored on its database, which could be accessed easily by any TSA agent or passport official.
    The TSA had also implemented a number of security measures designed to stop a terrorist from smuggling a bomb on to a plane. Careful attention was paid to clothing: shoes, coats and belts were checked - and now underwear, thanks to Umar Farouk Abdulmutallab, a young Muslim man who had managed to board a Northwest Airlines flight en route from Amsterdam to Detroit, Michigan, with plastic explosives smuggled inside his pants. Fortunately, the bomb had failed to detonate.
    While luggage X-rays, full-body scans and searches amounted to nothing more than theatre - a performance meant to impart a false sense of security to commercial-airline travellers - people who owned a plane or had the financial means to charter one weren'tsubjected to the same scrutiny. Lobbyists working for the highly lucrative domestic private air-travel industry had thwarted the TSA's attempts to implement similar security measures for people flying by general aviation aircraft. These travellers were allowed to access their planes directly, bypassing all security checkpoints.
    Before leaving the townhouse, Fletcher had changed into clothing more suitable for surveillance work. Wearing sunglasses, he pulled a rolling suitcase behind him as he followed Karim across the windy tarmac. In addition to his sidearm and MTV vest, the suitcase contained a wide assortment of tools and equipment.
    Fletcher had made no effort to hide anything; Karim had assured him that the suitcase wouldn't be subjected to a search. Karim had also assured him that they could speak safely on the plane. His people swept it for listening devices, always, prior to takeoff.
    Karim, Fletcher knew, considered owning a plane a waste of money. His business, however, sometimes required him to fly at a moment's notice. The man had purchased a Cessna Citation, a modest jet compared to the lavish corporate Gulfstream parked near by. A Gulfstream could seat a dozen people comfortably and offered a host of amenities, such as an area for conferences and multiple flatscreen TVs with innumerable entertainment choices.
    Karim didn't indulge in such pomp and circumstance. The interior of Karim's Cessna was entirely practical, consisting of six comfortable and spacious tan leather executive seats strategically arranged tomaximize space. High-gloss veneer tables bolted to the floor and cabinetry with polished gold accents decorated the cabin, along with a beige carpet that showed no sign of