Spike carefully tears open the top of the envelope, and pulls out what's inside. A small, red memory card. About half the size of his fingernail. Three indents on the top are the only markings visible on the card. Spike digs in his pocket, taking out his phone, and put the card into the memory slot reader. He places the phone on the table, a projection shooting out the front of the phone, lighting up the opposite wall with information. A picture of the target on the upper-right corner. Female, caucasian, black hair and brown eyes. No visible tattoos, branding or body modifications, as well as no skin pigmentation at the time the photo was taken. On the left of the picture, is her name.

“‘Lee Davids’... Chinese?” I asked as I carried on looking at the information below the name. 5’4”... 120lbs, was wearing a green shirt…

“Nah, see right there? Under nationality? European. Swiss, most likely. Bet you she fled the war, married our dear client here and ran off the moment he opened his accounts to her.”

I take a look at the ‘Last Known Location’ section, and grin. “Nah, no war refugee goes to the Bahamas after coming into some big capital. I bet you she’s Russian. Probably got tired of the cold and the mandatory military duties and found her way out. If I spent my life in some cold-ass military base, I’d also run off for some fun in the sun on some paradise island.”

Spike gives me a sideways look, and goes back to scanning the projection.

“Well, looks like we’re vacationing in the Bahamas. Last hit on the credit card she swiped from her dear husband was an hour ago, at a hotel in Nassau. What time is it over there?” he asks.

“3:03am… She’s probably calling it an early night, then. We could be there in three hours if we manage to catch a flight early enough.”

“Right… Let’s get moving, then. You all packed?” he asks, picking up his phone.

“I’m always packed.” I say, looking back at him and laughing. I see a grin forming on his face as he starts to laugh too. We usually buy a pair of clothes at the location, makes us seem less suspicious and makes us less noticeable when we wear the local fashion.

“Right, then let’s go.”

…

A stuffy cab ride, two hours of waiting and a swipe of the company card (provided by Spike, of course) later and we’re ready to get going. From my cramped aisle seat, I can see the top of Spike’s head poking above the headrest two rows in front of me. Sitting next to me is some sticky six year old, his feet in the air and his head resting on the seat before we even took off. Little bastard almost knocked my teeth out within the first five minutes. Sitting next to him is who I can assume is the mom. She’s already ordered a glass of wine and is staring out of the window, probably longing to just get up, exit the plane and leave the little shit behind.

As I try get comfy with the tiny amount of legroom afforded to me, I see Spike turning his head to look back at me. He looks at me, then the kids feet, then back at me. A soft chuckle comes out of him, and he turns back and starts chatting to the person next to him. The person next to him must be short, I can’t see what they look like. But I can hear them laugh as Spike says something to them.

It’s a woman’s laugh. And god damn, it sounds gorgeous.

I look back at the kid, his legs cartwheeling in the air as he starts singing baa-baa black sheep off-key at the top of his lungs. I look up at the mother, busy sipping from her glass of wine. Headphones on and movie playing on-screen.

I pull the zap at the back of Spike’s head, and try adjusting my legs for the upteenth time. It’s gonna be a long three hours.

…

The Argoplane, invented in 2055, revolutionized the transport industry due to its low fuel-to-force ratio. Electronic Nano-Filament, which makes up the outside layer, allows the plane to be non-frictional from the front, and increases air friction towards the back. This causes a difference in pressure between the two sides,which greatly increases speed and lift without sacrificing fuel. Once an Argoplane is in the air, it can stay there for a maximum of forty-three consecutive hours, while maintaining a cruise speed of 3 600 miles an hour, over six times the cruising speed of the previous generation of passenger airplanes.

“Huh… Interesting…” I mutter to myself. This must have been the hundredth time I’ve read a pamphlet like this. With the amount of travel we’ve done, I’ve gone over almost all of them. Those stupid little pamphlets they provide you in your little kit, so the more nervous fliers can read all about the safety and efficiency of the metal behemoth that holds their current fate. Most of them are almost exactly the same, yet I read on.

“Uhh dis is da pirot speekin, fasten yer seetbolt we arr lan... s…. krrsht...”

The overhead speakers drone on. I’ve been on hundreds of flights, yet not a single fucking one of the pilots make a single shred of sense when speaking on the mic. Are they taught to put the microphone in their mouths while they talk? Sure fucking seems like it.

Right on cue, the air stewardesses start their commute to the back of the plane, checking each chair to make sure the tray is in the ‘up’ position. The little shit next to me is currently tugging on his mom, asking her a million questions a minute. “What’s happening now are we landing will it be rough do I have to put my seatbelt on what happens if I keep my tray down are we gonna get more snacks how do the pilots know when to slow down?”

I look up at the mother, and for the first time, we lock eyes. The bags under her eyes must weigh a tonne. I glance down at her left hand, and see a very light tan line around her ring finger.

An understanding passes between us, as I turn towards the little shit. I lean in closer towards the boy, as if I'm passing him a secret.

“Hey, kid… Do You really wanna know how they know when to slow down? You see those ladies over there?” I asked, pointing towards the stewardesses.

“Yeah?”

“They look for the loudest, worst-behaved and obnoxious kid on the plane. It has to be a kid, otherwise it doesn't work. Adults are too heavy, y’know? Then, they take that kid, tie them to the wheels outside, and they listen. The louder the kid screams, the more they slow down, until they land on top of ‘em. That's how they know when to slow down. Only way. None of the kids survive, of course, but that's for the greater good anyways.”

The little shit stares back at me, eyes going wide and face going pale. I match his gaze, my face perfectly neutral, dead serious. From the corner of my eyes, I can see the mother trying her hardest not to laugh.

I point back towards the stewardesses, slowly coming closer towards us. One of them sees me pointing at her. She looks up at us, and smiles.

“Looks like they found you, kid. Good luck.”