Free Weaponized by Nicholas Mennuti, David Guggenheim Page A

of his favorite lines:
    Some of the most honest people have had to do some time. Don’t be afraid of the time; be afraid for your name.
    Kyle brings the beer to his lips again. Wash it all away. Just keep moving.

22.
    PHNOM PENH INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT
    P hnom Penh International is the size of a shoebox. A small customer-service area and blue chairs bolted to the floor in front of the departure board. Its sole distinguishing features are a Dairy Queen, a few stands selling indigenous trinkets—mostly elephant statues, totems of eternal return—and a pizza place, overpriced, because it can be.
    Outside, pilots unload UN rice and medicine from a fleet of small planes refueling for the flight home.
    Kyle stands in line at the kiosks to print out his boarding pass. Pink shirt, pinstripe suit, red suspenders, puffed-up hair. He’s more Robinson than himself now, and he can’t keep his foot still. He’s artificially awake, hopped up on adrenaline.
    A kiosk opens up. He approaches it, takes out Robinson’s AmEx, swipes it, and waits while the machine processes.
    The computer freezes, then starts to hum like an overworked appliance. Kyle stands there, waiting for the system…
    Waiting.
    Waiting.
    Long time.
    Don’t shake. Don’t act suspicious. What would Robinson do? Probably have a cigarette and talk about his Anglophile mother.
    The computer comes back to life.
    And tells Kyle his card is denied and the system can’t issue a boarding pass. It instructs him to speak to a service representative.
    Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
    He hits the cancel button, swipes the card again, his foot keeping time with his anxiety.
    Hum. Hum. Hum. Computer processes.
    Waiting.
    Same shit.
    Still waiting.
    Fucking frozen.
    The computer refuses the card again. Instructs him to speak with a service representative.
    He looks at the other machines; they’re all occupied, and the lines are starting to wind around the rope. He can’t get in another line; he’ll lose too much time. He needs to make his plane.
    Fucking hell cocksucking shit.
    He’s moved on to cluster cursing. Never an auspicious sign. He raises his hand to the side of the machine, ready to slap it. He tries to gain control of himself but loses it after one more quick glimpse at the blinking screen:
    Card denied. Speak with a customer-service representative.
    He doesn’t want to speak with a customer-service representative. He wants his goddamn fucking ticket. The one he paid for with Robinson’s fucking card.
    That’s what he wants.
    He broadsides the machine with his palm. Not once. Not twice. Three times. Hits it so hard that it’s shaking. Slapping the machine around like it’s a gangster’s moll momentarily pacifies his anger, but it also has an unforeseen side effect.
    A uniformed security guard appears beside him and grimaces. “Problem, sir? Problem with machine?”
    Kyle’s hand is still in the air and he’s contemplating a fourth slap. “Problem. No. No problem,” he says. Act like nothing’s wrong. Be Robinson. Smile in the face of adversity. But he can’t. His hand is visibly shaking.
    “Hit machine,” the guard says. “Why you hitting machine?”
    “Misunderstanding. Just a misunderstanding.”
    “What? Why you hit machine? Can’t do. Can’t hit.”
    “I was wrong. I’m going. I’m on my way out.”
    “Why? Why you hit?”
    “I’m just leaving…”
    The guard stares past Kyle at the face of the kiosk. “No leave. You need to see customer service. That all. Very simple. No hit. Customer service.”
    “No. Not necessary.”
    “To hit. Yes. Customer service. Follow me.”
    “No. Not necessary.”
    “Customer service. I take you.”
    “Oh, no, sir, I don’t want to trouble—”
    “Not trouble. This way.”
    “Sir…”
    The guard gets on his walkie-talkie, speaks into the receiver in Khmer, then turns back to Kyle. “This way.” He beckons for Kyle to follow. “This way. With me.”
    Kyle follows the guard’s instructions. Too late to run.