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[color=crimson][sub]"[b]On His Demon Head's Secret Service[/b]" // Part 01[/sub][/color][/center]
[color=crimson][b]Gotham City[/b]
Archie Goodwin International Airport[/color]

The Gulfsteam V was privately owned.

The tail number, G-V137N, was registered out of the Kingdom of Bahrain to a bank holding company in Manama with assets and accounts that formed a financial spiderweb from Saudi Arabia to Copenhagen and Berlin to Hong Kong, before disappearing into Swiss Geneva. The flight plan had taken the private jet from Bahrain to London, where it had enjoyed some time in Heathrow before journeying from the United Kingdom to the United States.

A lady in a [i]niqab[/i] held the passports. Aside from the four air crew -- two pilots, two attendants -- there was just the lady in the mask and a kid. Boy still in elementary school, not even ten years old by the date on his passport. Obaydullah ibn Mustafa Shayat. Kid was light for an Arab, with a pair of green eyes that made the immigration officer wonder at what point the Irish had gone to the Middle East. It caught the immigration officer's eye, but the paperwork was all in order and other people's kids weren't any of his business. So he stamped the visa and welcomed them to the United States.

[i]"...London authorities still urging calm this morning, after gunshots were heard outside of the Palace of Westminster yesterday. Scotland Yard has yet to comment, though sources close to the investigation say that the leader of the House of Lords may have been taken to the hospital."[/i]

The televisions overhead in the airport were tuned to CNN, the broadcast showing London's bobbys in their signature yellow slickers blocking the view behind where yellow crime scene tape cordoned off a significant area outside of Parliament. The iconic image of Big Ben looming in the backdrop of England's capital. A smile crept like a shadow across the face of the small boy, a self-satisfied smirk as he walked underneath the news cast.

A limousine was waiting when the woman and the boy stepped outside of the terminal. They hadn't stopped to pick up any luggage, instead walking straight through the airport to get into the back of the car. Airport security cameras captured only a few fleeting glimpses of the car and the passengers before they'd rolled out of sight. Anyone running the plates would come up with a private taxi service and a lot of blank entries.

The woman in the veil took the seat opposite the driver, next to a squat man who was balding gray and with small, round spectacles drooping low on the bridge of his nose. As the boy settled down on the bench seat at the back by himself, he reached across to help himself to a Coke from the fridge and then opened the briefcase that was resting on the seat beside him.

[color=crimson]"What the [b]hell[/b] is this?"[/color] the child blurted rudely. Seated inside of the briefcase, atop a manila folder, was a German made Walther PPS. Subcompact, .40S&W, with a 6+1 standard magazine. A spare clip and a box of ammo were resting beside it. Popping the top on the Coke, the youth reached down with his spare hand to hoist up the small pistol and declare, [color=crimson]"I asked for a P239 SAS."[/color]

The fat man just seemed amused by the child's ire. "Walther PPs are the gun of choice for James Bond," the man noted, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket and removing his glasses. Cleaning them, the man nonchalantly added, "It was that or a Czech-75, which would you prefer?"

[color=crimson]"I [i]prefer[/i] the SiG."[/color] 

Blowing on his lenses, the man paused his cleaning to look up. "And I prefer bigger tits," he cracked snidely, with a glance over at the lady in the veil. 

Faster than the eye could follow, a rather [i]pointed[/i] crochet needle was set against the man's carotid artery. 

"...the [i]point[/i] is, we don't always get what we want," the man stated flatly, even as a bead of sweat ran down his head.

The boy's expression transformed from confusion, to disgust, to frustration, and finally exasperation. [color=crimson]"-[b]tt[/b]-"[/color] he uttered in a huff, taking a sip of his Coke as he tossed the pistol back into the briefcase and shut the lid.