The next few days passed in a blur for Alain, as she and T Money packed and readied themselves for the trip. Vargo had the tickets for Alain, just as he promised, and she noted that she would, indeed, be flying into Francis International Airport.

October third came surprisingly quick, and Alain was stunned as she watched her luggage go through the terminal at the airport. With a nervous smile, she handed her Bureau pass to the person at the weapon detection counter. As per policy, she handed the older woman both of her guns and walked through the machine. On the other side, the woman returned her pass and guns. Alain tucked the .357 back in her calf holster and the .45 on her waist holster. She had decided to buy another calf holster when she arrived in Liberty City, one for the .45. She wasn’t used to carrying a second weapon and having it on her waist was even more odd.

T Money walked through the inspection counter after Alain, looking bored through the entire thing. She, too, had a FBI pass because she was with Alain, but she had no need to present it to anyone. Her own gun, a 9 mm, was back at their apartment, hidden between her mattress and box springs with the hand grip slightly sticking out in case anyone tried to break in. T wasn’t one to always pack heat.

Shifting her carryon from one shoulder to the other, Alain stepped onto the plane and handed the stewardess her ticket.

“Right this way,” the stewardess said in her automated, bland voice with an empty smile. Alain and T Money followed her to the back of the plane (oddly enough, the Bureau was willing to cover all of the expenses for the mission but they didn’t give First Class plane tickets). Their seats were on the right of the plane, the window seat and the seat immediately next to it.

“Window,” Alain said, claiming the window seat, and T scowled but refused to argue. Alain shoved her carryon bag under her seat and put her satchel next to her on the floor. She sat and adjusted the seat until she was comfortable.

Over the next twenty minutes, passengers slowly filtered onto the plane. When the pilot started speaking, talking about rules and regulations, the plane was only half full — at most.

The plane took off thirty minutes after Alain and T Money were seated. The liftoff was normal, but Alain felt a flutter of anxiety when the plane departed. After they had been in the air for a few seconds, she felt herself relax.

T Money had no problems flying and it showed. She was leaning back, eyes closed, with headphones on, throughout the entire takeoff process. Alain assumed she had taken or done something to mellow her out, but even if she hadn’t, the flight wouldn’t have bothered her.

Alain tried to nap, but she was too excited. Despite her fears, she was more than ready to take on the mission. She wanted to prove herself to the Bureau, prove that she could be an excellent agent if they gave her an honest chance, and this, the Liberty City assignment, was her chance. She kept thinking of how different it would be to work undercover, work as a criminal, but she didn’t really know what criminal life was like. She had seen plenty of it, but she knew everything was different when you were on the other side of the situation.

When she couldn’t think any longer, she pulled a new file out of her satchel. It was one she had started herself, with the information that was essential to her in it. The first paper was one she had written about where they were going to be staying. Details and directions were jotted all over the paper in Alain’s almost undecipherable handwriting. She and T Money had decided to go with the second apartment building they called. It didn’t have a security system or a carport, but it did have a parking garage right down the road and Alain could buy a monthly pass for it if she found a car to rent or buy. The location was prime, in Newport on Staunton Island, and relatively close to both bridges. The building itself was six stories tall with two apartments on each floor. They were going to be living on the third floor and the apartment was already furnished.

Mr. Ian Woon was their new landlord. From the conversation Alain had with him, she had figured he was an elder, Asian gentleman who had been living in the US for a long time; his accent was apparent, but it wasn’t as pronounced as it would have been if he hadn’t been living in the States for very long. He was very polite and accommodating over the phone — Alain hoped he would be the same way in person.

The next paper bore directions on how to contact D Ice in M Dog’s small, neat handwriting. D Ice was a highly suspicious person, M Dog had told them the day before, and wouldn’t allow M Dog to give his address out. Instead, M Dog had arranged for Alain and T Money to be at a payphone, on Shoreside Vale in Wichita Gardens, on Monday at noon. D Ice would call the payphone, verify who they were, and give them further instructions at that time. Alain was anxious about the meeting, but not frightened. Her anxiety was a combination of apprehension and anticipation.

The only other items in the file were the guidebook and a large, foldout roadmap of Liberty City. Alain planned to acquire a car soon after she arrived (the thought of catching cabs every day, like she did in New York, wasn’t a pleasant one) and the roadmap would be useful for that, or so Mr. Woon had told her. She purchased it overnight on the internet after setting up their accommodations.

After double checking all of her information and making sure she had everything she absolutely needed with her, Alain settled back and stared out the small, circular window. As she watched the wispy, pale clouds float by, she let her mind drift until she was lightly asleep.

***

Landing, Alain decided, was much worse than takeoff. She stared out the window nervously, at the three small islands below and the wide expanse of fierce, navy sea dotted with miniature icebergs. She could see the airport below getting larger as they circled above it, but the small stretch of concrete that was the landing strip didn’t look long enough or wide enough to land a plane on.

“If it’s bothering you, just sit back and close your eyes,” T advised her, pulling her headphones off and letting them hang on her neck. She stretched and popped her neck, her chain glinting in the bright light.

Alain tried to pry herself away from the oval of glass. She couldn’t.

“I can’t,” she said helplessly, “I need to see what’s going on. If I’m going to die, I want to see the crash.”

T snorted and turned her discman off. “If we were actually in danger of crashing, you would probably pass out before we hit the ground.” She, too, glanced out the window, but didn’t stare in fear out of it; she was merely curious to see what the city looked like from the air.

“It looks dirty,” she said, glancing away.

It did look dirty, Alain thought. The island furthest away, Portland, was nothing but large, gray buildings and smog. Staunton Island had larger buildings and a coliseum, she noted, but looked just as filthy. Shoreside Vale, the island they were getting closer and closer to, had the same monotone buildings as the other two islands, but it also had suburban areas, with houses and bright green lawns.

The lights flickered off and then back on to get everyone’s attention. The stewardess made a speech about wearing safety belts when landing and finished up with a standard: “Have a nice day, and thanks for flying with McAdam Airways!”

A few seconds later, it was all over. Alain breathed a sigh of relief that T Money mimicked playfully. Alain ignored her as she pulled her carryon bag out from under her seat and shrugged her satchel on her shoulder.

When she stepped off the plane, Alain took a deep breath of fresh air. Although the city looked dirty, it didn’t smell much different than the air in New York City. The main difference was the salt in the air; she could taste it when she inhaled.

Francis International Airport was similar to the JFK International Airport. It was a decent sized airport, for the size of the island it was on. Once they stepped inside the building, a bored looking man greeted them.

“Welcome to Liberty City,” he said, “Enjoy your stay.” He handed each person a pamphlet as they walked past him. Alain glanced at the shiny brochure and stuffed it in her pocket, determined to find her luggage and get to the apartment as fast as possible.

T Money had the same idea. She threw her pamphlet in a trashcan and headed toward the luggage conveyor, where a crowd of noisy people were impatiently waiting for their luggage.

“This airport is busy,” Alain remarked, standing in queue for the conveyor, half listening to the younger couple in front of her argue about football.

T Money glanced around. “Yeah, it is. I’m not surprised; Liberty City is a nice sized city. But our plane was nearly empty, and it was coming from New York. That’s weird.”

“It is,” Alain agreed, and stepped forward and the line moved. Within minutes, they were picking up their luggage, seven bags total, and they were lugging them to the exit.

“There will be taxis outside,” T Money said, “waiting on fares. We shouldn’t have a problem getting one. You still have those directions to the apartment?”

“Yep,” Alain said as they reached the exit. She stepped outside, into the bright, mid-afternoon sun, and squinted. T Money was right; taxis were lined up at the curb.

“That one,” T said, pointing, and Alain turned toward the taxi.

A foreign man, dressed in a dark brown robe and adorned with a red turban, scrambled out of the driver’s seat as the women approached the vehicle.

“Hello!” He chirped in a heavily accented voice, his hands moving wildly as he gesticulated. “You need help? With bag? Put it in trunk?”

“Um,” Alain exchanged a glance with T Money before nodding. “Yes, please.”

“Okay!” The man rolled a key chain full of keys around in his palm before plucking them up by one key. He opened the trunk and moved to help them with their luggage. “I put them in trunk for you!”

Alain handed the man two of her bags and stood silently, watching, as he wrestled them into the small trunk. Slowly, all of their bags except for one, which T Money said could sit in the backseat with her, were nestled in the trunk.

“All right!” The man beamed, shutting the trunk. “Destination? Where you going?”

Alain pulled the paper out of her satchel. “Newport, on Staunton Island. We’re going to the apartments off of Presley Street.”

The man stared at her. “Apartment? Which one?! Lot of apartment in Newport. Which one?!”

Alain blanched. “All I know is that it’s on Presley. I was told it’s either the last left on Presley or the first right.”

The man glared and crossed his arms. “Okay! Presley Street! We look for apartment but if no find apartment, you still pay! Full price!”

“That’s fine,” T Money interjected. She shot Alain an apologetic look for butting into the conversation. “Just take us there, will you?” He nodded, but kept giving Alain an evil look until he stepped into the car.

“Maybe I should have gotten better directions,” Alain muttered, glancing at T Money.

She shrugged. “You’ve never been here before and that man drives a cab for a living. Together, it’s not a good combination. Don’t worry about it, let’s just go.” T opened the rear door and slid in. Grimacing, and not looking forward to the drive ahead, Alain opened the passenger’s side door and followed suit.

***

© 2003 Brianna Jackson.