Riddick stood in front of a large window, looking down on the tarmac in the bustling airport terminal of the Dallas International Airport gazing out at the panoramic view of the scene below. His eyes sparkled with childlike fascination as he watched the intricate choreography of the planes. It was as though he had been transported back to his youth, rekindling the wonder he had felt the first time he had ever seen an aircraft up close. The sunlight bathed the tarmac in a warm glow, casting a golden hue upon the rows of planes, each with its unique design and livery.

As a boy, Riddick had grown up in a town that was situated next to a large military airport.  The towering steel-gray watchtowers that had stood sentinel and cast long shadows over the desolate landscape had formed in him as a young man a fascination with power and authority. The foreboding chain-link fences that had encircled the entire compound, and the harsh, unforgiving glare of floodlights only added to the aura of secrecy and threat that radiated from the military complex. The entire facility seemed to dare anyone who approached it to question its menacing authority. For Riddick, that airport had represented much more than just a place for planes to land; it had moulded and formed his entire personality.

When he was ten years old, he would sometimes sneak out of his house late at night after his alcoholic father had passed out.  He’d climb onto his trusty bicycle, pedalling into the chill of the evening air, his breath forming misty clouds in front of him. The journey took him to a secret spot several blocks away from his home, where he could catch a mesmerizing sight – military planes arriving and departing from the nearby airport. The night held a certain eerie quality that both fascinated and frightened him, as he rarely ventured out this late.  Everything around him felt new and unknown, like a world he was just beginning to discover.  The world was different at night, it was dangerous.

In the black of night, he couldn’t distinguish the type of plane approaching, but he could tell by the distance between the lights on the tips of the wings how massive or how small the incoming plane was.  There was a mystique surrounding these military aircraft, an aura of power and purpose that left an indelible mark on his young mind, igniting his imagination with dreams of adventures and far-off places.

it was a living symbol of who he wanted to be as a man. Disciplined, scheduled, and hard-working,  it’s why he had survived all these years.

Riddick turned away from the window and took a seat in the waiting lounge, he was angry and frustrated. He had been trying to get a hold of Jimmy Chen and Clayton Radcliffe all morning, but neither was answering their phones.  He once again took his phone from the right-hand pocket of his jeans and tried to call Clayton Radcliffe, and once again it went straight to voicemail.

“Goddamn it, answer your phone,” he muttered under his breath.

Next, he dialled Jimmy Chen‘s number, and the same thing happened. After four rings, it went to voicemail causing him to flush with anger. Riddick expected his phone calls to be answered right away, especially over business as important as a contract kill.  Why weren’t they answering?

At the sound of the beep, he left a message on Jimmy Chen’s phone.

“You need to answer your fucking phone bud, I’ve been calling you all morning.  I’m back from Mexico today, I want to see you and Radcliffe at the Elysium, at seven o’clock.  I want an update about the canned peach, don’t be late!” he said, with a cold and commanding voice.

By canned peach, he meant Julie Koop.  He could never be sure if the feds were bugging his phone, so he always spoke in code when talking about business. He never said anything on the phone that could be used against him in a court of law.

Before long, he boarded his plane, and after a smooth takeoff, it quickly climbed to a cruising altitude of 38,000 feet.  He was sitting in a large leather seat in first class.  Up here his cell phone wouldn’t work, and he enjoyed the two hours of peace and freedom from constant and relentless vibrations from coming phone calls and text messages.

He spent some time dwelling on the tunnel project unsure of how to move forward. Isabella Fuentes had been right when she told him he was out of his depth, and what bothered him even more was that it had been obvious to those around him.  Riddick liked to hold his cards close to his chest and hated it when people could figure him out.  The stress he was under was causing him to slip, he was losing his control and his composure.

After landing, Riddick took a taxi back to the gleaming docks of the exclusive boatyard where he kept his yacht moored.  He had been in Mexico for two days, and coming back to the sight of his yacht was a relief. Riddick looked cool and powerful wearing jeans, a white T-shirt, a black leather jacket, and a baseball hat; he hadn’t shaved for a week.  He caught his reflection in the window of a boat, he was starting to look like Jason Statham with the unshaven look.

However, the pleasure of being back home was short-lived. As he approached his yacht, he noticed two sharply dressed individuals waiting for him.  Agent Anderson and Agent Parker, both with FBI badges prominently displayed on their belts were standing at the top of the gangplank that led down to the Elysium.  Riddick felt a small lump in his throat.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Riddick, I'm Special Agent Anderson, and this is Special Agent Parker. We'd like to ask you a few questions about a shooting yesterday afternoon.  Mind if we have a word?"

Both agents radiated strength and confidence, they made Riddick uncomfortable, but he played the tough guy act to the best of his ability.  The only time he couldn’t force and bully his way through somebody was when he was dealing with law enforcement; he hated it.  It was the only time he felt emasculated.

“Don’t act like I got a choice.  You guys have nothing better to do but stand around my boatyard all day?” he said.

“We just got here, Mr. Riddick.  Should we step inside your yacht? It might be a better place to conduct a conversation,” Agent Anderson suggested.

“No, you may not. You’ll talk to me right here,” Riddick said trying to radiate a strong, alpha male authority, but he knew his world was about to unravel.   

“As you wish, Mr. Riddick.  We don’t need much of your time.  Do you recognize these two men?” Agent Anderson asked.

Anderson handed two large photos over to Riddick, as he placed his duffel bag down on the dock, removed his aviator sunglasses, and looked closely at the two pictures. His face immediately turned chalk white.  Riddick, a man usually calm and composed, suddenly felt himself losing control. He could feel a tightness in his chest, he was lightheaded and dizzy.  There, in his hands, were pictures of Clayton Radcliffe and Jimmy Chen; both men were dead.  They were pictures taken from the scene of the shooting behind the Walmart Superstore.

Riddick studied the first picture, trying to comprehend what he was looking at.  It was a picture of Clayton Radcliffe, his dead body spread out on a pile of flattened cardboard boxes.  Riddick could see several bullet holes in his chest. Next, he studied the second picture which showed Jimmy Chen laid out on the pavement in a similar fashion, a small trickle of blood had seeped from his lifeless body leaving a crimson stain on the pavement, he too had several bullet holes in his chest.  It seemed like an eternity passed until somebody spoke.

“Do you recognize those two men, Mr. Riddick?” agent Anderson asked.

“I’m sorry?” Riddick said, trying to buy some time as he hopelessly failed to formulate an answer that didn’t sound suspicious.

“Do you recognize those two men, Mr. Riddick?” Anderson repeated.

“Uhh, nope. Never seen them in my life.  Anything else gentlemen?” Riddick said as he handed the two pictures back to the agents.

Agent Parker had been standing silent the whole time, he had a smug air about him and knew who Bronson Riddick was.

“Do you play poker, Mr. Riddick?” Agent Parker asked.

“Yeah, sometimes. What’s it to you?” Riddick asked.

“Word to the wise. You need to work on your poker face,” Parker said as a small smirk came across his face.

The comment from agent Parker had stung, and Riddick realized that in his state of absolute shock, every feeling and every emotion he had at that moment had been broadcast to the world.  He was fooling nobody.  The tightness in his chest started to grow more intense, and he found his breath growing shallower, it felt like the start of a panic attack.

“I’ve got stuff to do gentlemen as I’m sure you do as well. There are plenty of crackheads in this city you could go arrest. Now get the fuck out of my way,” Riddick said trying to mask his emotional turmoil.

Both FBI agents stared at Riddick for five seconds before responding.

“You have yourself a good day, Mr. Riddick,” Anderson said, without making eye contact.   

Riddick stood like a statue, watching the two FBI agents walk away, he stood there for a full two minutes until they were completely out of sight.  Like a drugged-up zombie, he slowly made his way down the gangplank and into his yacht. He was so in shock, that he left his duffle bag full of clothes sitting outside on the dock.

When Riddick entered the Elysium, it was dark and empty.  Without even turning the lights on, he slowly walked into the living room and sat down on the edge of his long, luxurious leather couch.  His aviator sunglasses were still on.  His hands trembled, the pictures of Jimmy Chen and Clayton Radcliffe riddled with bullets had shattered the fragile equilibrium of his existence, leaving him and his yacht adrift in a sea of disbelief.  He sat staring at the far wall, attempting to rationalize the irrational, but it was a hopeless pursuit.

What had happened behind the Walmart Supercenter that had left two of his best hit men dead? How had Julie Koop got the better of them?  And most importantly, where was she now?  Was she still alive?  He brought his hand up to his forehead massaging his tense muscles while these questions bounced around his head relentlessly.

Still in a zombie-like state, he slowly walked into his kitchen and opened the fridge.  After scanning the shelves, slowly, it was obvious he had lost his appetite, he slowly and gently closed the fridge door. He looked out of the window at the sprawling ocean outside.  He was experiencing feelings he had never felt before, it was the feeling of defeat.  He was still pale and looked like he had just seen a ghost.

In the living room, he could hear his phone ringing, he knew he should answer it, but he didn’t have the strength to talk to anyone, he knew he had to corral this spiralling situation quickly.  Somewhere out there in the sprawling city, Julie Koop was still alive and breathing.