"Look, if I killed someone

  everytime I wanted to," her voice trailed off as she read the chalked message on the cinderblocks, "There wouldn't be many people left." 

  "Hey now." 

  "But not me I'm your favorite son, right?!" 

  The voices echo'd in the passageway, then coffin'd in a dank room with sparse furniture covered in sheets.  The sheets were a tapestry of dust and mold.  "Clear," a man said and moved on through the labyrinth.  "Guess you can put those away ladies," another man said of everyone's pistols drawn.  "Mine doesn't have any bullets," the redhead's lips poised into an ultimate position of suspended reality.  "Here take these," a veteran correspondent shook three from his and dumped them from a paw of a hand not much movable after slamming it as a sledgehammer.  We'd run into a 2x4 blockade in a tunnel and with very little time to spare before troops exchanging a spit of territory, we'd had to get through.  The man shoved the revolver back into his waist band.  Some sort of luggage strap cinching pants to his new size.  "Not a lot to eat in these parts," he said to the watching.

  Ahahahaachooo.  

  "I'll get the maid to bring some tissues." 

  "What was it like?" 

  "Reeyahd.  Sounds sexy." 

  "I think it sounds like

  The man who'd gone first into the room was again standing in the doorway.  Other, somewhat shuffling footsteps were making way towards.  The man did not seem alarmed. 

  "Like a knife's edge.  War on the other side of a flat mountain face of glass." 

  "Bulletproof I'm sure," someone chortled. 

  The man shone a floodlight of a flashlight on us.  "For fuck's sake," a raspy whisper commented. 

  "This is where they were?" 

  One of us waved.  "Nice to see ya too." 

  "The brothers.  In there like it weren't nothing but a thing." 

  Above ground poisonous gas weapons had been preventing inspectors from signing off on above-board "nuclear activity". 

  The woman with a mass of gray hair entered the room one hand in vest pocket, the other holding onto a briefcase.  "Don't come any closer," the red-haired woman growled.  The briefcase was laid on top of a covered piece of furniture.  The taller woman turned, took two steps closer.  Removed hand from pocket and held it out towards the gun pointed at her.  "You don't know what happened out there," she shoved the gun towards somewhere else but resettled it on the woman.  A threat.  The taller woman considered the shorter woman, then said, "You're a bloody mess.  I can guess." 

  "Am I?  You've still got your eyesight then?" 

  "It's coming back.  Slowly but surely." 

  "Got any tampons in there?" She pointed the gun at the briefcase.  "I hate when the stores are all boarded up before a flight." 

  A tsk.  "Why don't you look for yourself?" 

  The woman set the gun down beside the briefcase.  Rooted a small flashlight from an inner pocket.  Spotlighted both objects.  Put the butt end of the flashlight in her mouth, wiped her hands on the back of her pants, and clicked the briefcase buckles.  Hands pulled clear plastick'd manuscript from its nest.  "Inshallah." Dust and pebbles fell from the ceiling of the passageway as a pair of hard cart wheels passed by.  "What does it mean?"  

  "We must go," said the man in the doorway.  "Cart lays a glow-in-the-dark line.  Many feet follow." 

  A cameraman stepped quietly toward the manuscript, may I see?  Firmly picked up the gun.  "It doesn't matter anymore," the red-haired woman said.  The makeup that had been fresh and neat just seventeen hours before made caverns in a gaunt face of her eyes.  "Because we're here," one of the men said.  "We are." Said the woman with the gray hair, the taller one as she handcuffed one hand to the briefcase.  "Do I get to cuff the wildcat?" The man in the doorway asked and growled.  "How can you people think of that at a time like this?" 

  "Always is a good time." 

  "Hear, here," air-toasted another man.  

  "Put these on," cross-shoulder gun holsters were put on the table.  "Do not draw your weapons on the surface," he warned.  "I cannot prevent them shooting at us." 

  "Because of Assad." 

  "Them shooting at us?" 

  "The mission of the inspectors." 

  The graffiti on the cinderblocks had read:  THEY KILLED IT.  "The assignment.  It's over or not happening.  'Cut our losses,' bossman said.  That's why," she turned her head to eye the veteran correspondent, but he'd slipped away, "Came back to me." 

  "Then you're not next in line." 

  "But I have to have his back," she started for the passageway but was blocked by the man who'd quickly slung his long gun over his shoulder and received her like a tackler.  She squirmed free and eyes darted side to side.  "We're just going to let him go by himself?" 

  "Better him than you." 

  "But he'll, he'll," she shook her head to perish the thought but it came out anyway, "He'll get himself killed." 

  "That's right Marie.  Himself." 

  "We can't afford a funeral for you over here." 

  Silence. 

  "Come with me to New York," Oriana suggested as the sound of feet began to traverse the ceiling of the hallway.  A last deflate of the air left in the balloon, sigh.