Free Weaponized by Nicholas Mennuti, David Guggenheim Page B

No way he can leave now without causing a scene, no way he won’t be pursued, no way this won’t be on camera, and no way it won’t end up on the news once people figure out who he is.
    No. No fucking way. He’s got to see a customer-service rep.
    The guard leads Kyle to the service area while smiling and beckoning with his hand. “Very close,” he says.
    Kyle trudges along, the unfamiliar sound of Robinson’s Ferragamos echoing. He curses the noise and the way the shoes strangle circulation. How the hell does Robinson walk around the third world in these? Kyle’s barely walked around the airport and already feels blisters blossoming.
    The security guard plops Kyle down in a seat in front of a service rep, a Khmer girl blowing on a steaming cup of tea.
    “Ticket trouble,” the guard says to the girl as he walks off, “man have ticket trouble.”
    “I’m Mai. How may I help you?” she says to Kyle. She’s young, barely drinking age, wearing a simple black dress and thick-rimmed glasses.
    “The kiosk won’t print my boarding pass,” Kyle says, and sits on his hands so she can’t see them shake.
    “I’m sorry about that, sir.”
    “Will this take long?”
    “Not at all.”
    “Good.”
    “I’m just going to need to see your passport and e-ticket.”
    Kyle dips into the jacket pocket, pulls out Robinson’s passport, puts it on top of the e-ticket, and turns them over to Mai.
    “Oh…and your credit card too.”
    “Fine,” Kyle says, and hands her Robinson’s black AmEx, then sits on his hands again.
    Mai begins to type furiously. “Have you enjoyed your time in Phnom Penh?”
    “Yes.”
    “What was your favorite thing to do?”
    Kyle sucks on his left cheek, thinking, Are we seriously going to do this shit, Mai? “I think…I wasn’t here very long. Just walked around the Central Market.”
    “My mother sews. She has a stand at Central Market.”
    Kyle tilts his head, trying to see what she’s typing. “Great. Good. Good for her.”
    She opens up Robinson’s passport, flips through the pages, punches a few more keys. “You look younger.”
    “What?”
    “Than in this photo.”
    “Oh,” Kyle says, shifting around on his hands. “I was tired when that was taken.”
    Mai giggles, showing her rabbit teeth, her pink tongue.
    “Everything okay?” Kyle asks.
    She punches a few more keys, drinks some tea, flinches at how hot it still is, and says, “Hmph. I can’t…seem to override the system to print out your boarding pass.”
    Kyle’s sweating like a man waiting for test results. Christ, he thinks, I’m a total bomb as Robinson.
    Then Mai hands his passport back to him, leans over the desk, and says:
    “You appear to be on a no-fly list, Mr. Robinson.”
    Within twenty seconds of Mai’s verbal neutron bomb, three Asian men approach the desk dressed in corporate camouflage—sober suits and ties, the type of clothes designed and selected to be instantly forgotten.
    One of them reveals himself to be the leader by removing his sunglasses and fixing his stare on Kyle. The other two look straight ahead, avoiding Kyle’s eyes, as if he’s committed a lurid crime.
    “Mr. Robinson,” the leader says. “Security. We’re going to have to ask you to come with us. This is purely a formality.” He tilts his head a bit. “I’m certain you understand. ”
    “I want to be put on a plane immediately,” Kyle says. “I paid for my ticket. There is no reason for me to be on a no-fly list…”
    “It’s not us, Mr. Robinson. It’s the computer.” He motions subtly for Kyle to rise. “We want this straightened out as much as you do. If you’ll just follow us.”
    “If you’d please just follow us,” one of the other men says, still avoiding eye contact, echoing the leader.
    “You’re harassing me,” Kyle continues. “I am an American citizen and I am being harassed—”
    The leader interjects with a leer, “You would like us to call your embassy, then?”
    Kyle’s trying to