Free Monster by Bernard L. DeLeo Page A

insults.”
    Reskova stood up. “I’ll go let the Little Big Horn know we have our seats.”
    “I hope this dry run deal turns out to be nothing,” Folley replied, grinning at Reskova’s quip without looking up from his paper.
    “See you later.”
    She rejoined McDaniels at his table. He looked up from his iced tea questioningly.
    “Fourteen.”
    McDaniels laughed.
    “What’s so funny?” Reskova asked.
    “Not one damn thing. This country has become a politically correct joke.”
    “Just remember,” Reskova reminded him, “do unto others as you would have them do unto you.”
    “Maybe you better handcuff me. I feel a Bad Moon Rising . What are you looking for, head lice?”
    Reskova had been checking out the whitened scar running up from the back of McDaniels’ neck over his right ear and ended just above his right temple. “I wanted to see where the shrapnel hit your head. It looks like it harmlessly bounced along the side of your thick skull. It never had a chance.”
    “How…” McDaniels began and then looked out toward the gate waiting area. “You’ve been grilling Ken, I take it.”
    “I just wondered how he knew your guardians and he told me.”
    “At Walter Reed, when John started in on me with the Custer routine, Ken was bustin’ up laughing. It was the first time since we had returned I’d seen him laugh. He and John spent a couple hours holding me up to ridicule. A good time was had by all.”
    “It’s hard to reconcile the way you are here and the guy holding the black plastic bag in the woods.”
    “Don’t worry, I’m sure I’ll do something in the near future to remind you of my psycho killer status.”
    “If you’re finished, Cold, let’s go sit down in the waiting area. Those soccer allstars should be checking in shortly.”
    “Repeating the line from Cold Mountain was not one of my brighter moments.” McDaniels stood up from the table. “I just thought I was so cute.”
    “And now you have a great nickname to go along with your smart-ass attitude,” Reskova needled him.
    “You have a mean streak, Agent Reskova.”
    * * *
    Half an hour later, just fifteen minutes before boarding, McDaniels spotted three of the Syrians. A squad of guards, holding M16’s, nonchalantly moved around the gate area. McDaniels alerted Reskova as the rest of the Syrians showed up, all carrying bags to take on with them. They sat in seats dispersed around the gate area, without speaking to one another. No more than two of them sat together. They filed up to the check-in desk at different intervals. Only after half of them had been informed of their seat assignment changes did McDaniels notice they began to whisper urgently to the ones who had not been to the desk.
    “This looks interesting,” McDaniels observed, tugging on Reskova’s sleeve. “Come on. Let’s go check-in and I’ll see if I can pick up some conversation.”
    McDaniels and Reskova moved up into the line, ending up between five of the Syrian group. Some of the other people waiting for the boarding announcement were visibly uncomfortable as they watched the Syrians check-in. The Syrians, on the other hand all checked out McDaniels’ manner and size appraisingly. The Syrian at the front of the line began arguing heatedly with the woman at the check-in desk.
    His tirade had very little effect on her. She simply repeated the instructions for seating and tried to hand him his boarding pass. A man walked behind the desk who also looked of Middle Eastern origin. He smiled at the woman and took over check-in. With a wave of his hand he told the Syrian in Arabic to take the pass and sit down. The Syrian took the pass, rage plain on his face. The appearance of a man who spoke Arabic diffused the situation. The other Syrians checked in without comment. Reskova and McDaniels took their boarding passes and sat down.
    “See, now that’s how you take care of a potentially volatile situation,” Reskova pointed out.
    “I believe you’re