Weaponized by Nicholas Mennuti, David Guggenheim

conquer his overwhelming fear with indignation. “You are harassing an American citizen.”
    “We will happily call the embassy and they can come and—”
    “I don’t want my embassy,” Kyle says, terrified they’re going to choose that option. “I want to get on a fucking plane,” he adds, his voice following a twelve-tone scale, starting low with general anxiety and ending in a soaring crescendo of panic.
    “And you will, Mr. Robinson. Please follow us so we can straighten this out.” The leader gives another head tilt, more threatening this time. “This isn’t getting us anywhere.”
    “I don’t belong on a no-fly list.”
    What would Robinson do? Well, apparently, he’s done lots and lots of nasty shit or Kyle wouldn’t be here.
    Out of options, Kyle stands, defeated, and agrees to go with the three men.
    The leader pulls a stray piece of lint off Kyle’s shoulder. “What a wonderful suit.” He flicks the piece of lint into Mai’s garbage can. “Follow me,” he says.
    The leader and Kyle walk side by side out of the service area and into the airport proper. They pass a series of crowded boarding gates. Kyle looks at them longingly. All of these people on their way home to be greeted by loved ones the minute they pass through customs.
    Kyle wishes he had told someone about this plan. But who? Neil’s his only friend and would have told Kyle he’d finally lost his mind.
    No two ways about it. He’s stranded.
    The leader leans into Kyle and whispers, “We appreciate you not making a scene. It would have been uncomfortable.”
    Kyle sees fewer people, notices he’s being escorted to an increasingly remote section of the airport. “Where are we going?”
    The leader doesn’t answer, just turns back and urges the two following behind to pick up the pace.
    Why didn’t I run? he thinks. Why did I follow that guard to the counter?
    The leader pushes open a service exit door and ushers Kyle through. The others follow. “Close that,” the leader snaps at his underlings.
    The hallway’s empty except for a mop and a bucket filled with gray-green water. No windows, no air, no natural light; fluorescent lights flicker.
    Kyle’s through playing along with this routine. “We near it yet? The security office?”
    “Sure,” the leader says, smirking. “Right down this hall.”
    Kyle knows this is bullshit; this whole situation is total bullshit. “Who are you guys? Seriously.” He feels the burn of the bleached floor in his nostrils. “Who are you? Tell me.”
    What he wants to do is scream out that he’s not Robinson, that they’ve got the wrong guy. Problem is, he’s not much better off being Kyle West.
    Maybe it’s best to just face the situation as Robinson.
    Maybe somehow it’ll work out and he’ll get on the next plane.
    Then it happens.
    Bitter tang of chemical spray. Brutal. Sends Kyle’s gag reflex into overdrive. And that’s before it ends up in his eyes. He staggers, opens his mouth to scream, but the lingering chemical cloud is so strong, he chokes instead, a dry, hard hack.
    A foot takes out Kyle’s legs, hurling him down. “Eat the floor. Eat the fucking floor.”
    The foot stays put in the center of Kyle’s back while someone ties his hands together with cord and pulls it tight in one fluid motion.
    “Keep your head down…keep it down.”
    Kyle’s pulled to his feet. He can barely see through the tears. The chemical taste on his tongue is like ingested insect spray.
    He sees someone wave around a Taser.
    “Keep your fucking eyes in front of you.”
    And then the hood goes over his head.
    Claustrophobia kicks in. He can’t breathe. Starts to panic.
    A quick kiss from the Taser current sets his spine straight.
    “Move. Move.”
    Someone steers Kyle by the waist and says:
    “Nice to see you again, Robinson. Been too long.”
    Then kicks him in the small of the back.

23.
    PHNOM PENH, CAMBODIA
    T om Fowler’s bored as hell, so he’s doing dumbbell work. Lateral raises,