Jim Sanumá parked his car, such as it was, far enough west of the airport not to be seen. Retrieving its cargo from the glove compartment, he gave the lock mechanism a sharp kick. It folded sharply, forming a rough box shape, which Jim shoved into the ditch. It would be found in the morning, perhaps, but by then it'd be too late.
Shrugging, he unfolded a cheap moped and rode it the rest of the way to the airport, along back ways the authorities didn't know about. This he disassembled and scattered in the parking garage.
Only then did he open the plastic bag which contained his gear. A cell phone, a fake passport, 5K spesmiloj, a high-density flash drive, and an airplane ticket to Belo Horizonte. Excellent.
He walked up the stairs to the airport. Silently, an alarm tripped, tripped again, and sent a signal to security and the police.
He passed through the doors, past a few introductory restaurants in garish colours, and made it to the security line.
"Sir? We're going to need you to-"
He took off, running.
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Inspired by (sequel to):
"We've got it."
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