Mr. Tokyo

Only instinct saved him that time in Uganda.

In the tiny terminal he loosened his shirt and pushed sweat back from his face, taking time to study the small jet outside. It should have been a low-risk exit with a clean passport, and nobody should have even known he was in the country. But as the official opened the passport and caught the name, Tokyo saw the man’s eyes widen ever so slightly.

The official was a professional, and affected indifference as he referred the passport to the unseen superior behind the mirror. Tokyo was a professional too. He yawned as he reached into his bag for the only necessary item not woven into his clothes: three rainbow tubes of spectrosomnol in blood-type blends, disguised as a novelty souvenir. He slipped it into his pocket and secured the strap. Then as the tired guard looked away, he broke for the door with soft steps.

Outside, a jeep had its engine running, the military driver gossiping with a civilian in a boiler suit. Tokyo came from behind the driver and stabbed a nerve centre in his neck. The body crumpled and Tokyo pushed it from the vehicle with his foot. He gunned the engine, grinned at the civilian and floored the pedal. The jeep scratched towards the runway. They opened fire at his back.

The alarms came on as he crossed the runway. A government car skidded from behind the administration block. If he could get to rough terrain, it wouldn’t be able to follow. A flight was coming in, a light commercial plane on final approach.

The tubes clinked in his pocket. Tokyo felt a sudden moment of perfect joy.

The jeep thundered towards the fence.