The Kill Zone

Zac grabbed the bottle off the coffee table and refilled her glass.

"And what are you classy gentlemen drinking?" I asked. "Coronas? Oi, Zac. Wanna chuck us a beer?"

"Aaaaand out comes her inner bogan." Zac slid a cold bottle across the coffee table. "Just when I start to think she's classy, I am reminded that she's not."

"Oh, come on," I teased. "You love the sweet, sweet sound of a strong Australian accent." I turned to Rick. "Zac could listen to you talk for hours. Your deep voice is music to his ears. Reminds him of home."

"It's true," Zac winked.

I turned to Marcelle. "Did I tell you about the time your boyfriend tried to bring a giant wooden didgeridoo on the plane with him, from Australia to Colombia."

"No," Marcelle smiled.

"Ah, well, let me enlighten you. About a year ago, Zac came to visit me in Sydney. He planned on staying for two weeks over New Year's Eve but ended up staying with me for two months. Bryce and Pandora are our best friends, and it was their last summer in Sydney before moving to New York. It was an 'end of an era' summer celebration. Anyway, Zac decided to buy a beautiful hand-made didgeridoo from an indigenous man, to bring back to Colombia-"

"Yes, I've noticed the indigenous art downstairs," Marcelle added.

"So one day, he came back to my place with a giant didgeridoo-"

"What exactly is a didgeridoo?" Javier interjected.

"Please refer to Exhibit A..." I conjured up a picture on my phone. "It's a long wooden instrument that is part of indigenous Australian culture."

"Anyway," I continued, "this thing is huge and made of wood, so I told him he might have a hard time getting it back into Colombia. Of course, Sir Zachary Borrowdale only flies business class, so he doesn't have to rub shoulders with the plebs in cattle class. He figured he could convince someone to let him take it as carry on, then sweet-talk his way through customs. Let me read this group chat, which paints the full picture of what happened."

The group laughed.

"Classic Zac," Javier said. "Actually, here's a question: hypothetically, how would you sneak a weapon through airport security to hijack a plane?"

The terrace fell silent as we contemplated the riddle.

Marcelle answered first. "I'd probably sneak in a weapon people weren't looking for. It would need to be unexpected and look like an everyday object. I'd hide it in plain sight, so it slips straight past their defenses and only becomes dangerous once I'm on the inside."

"Nice," Javier nodded in approval. "What about you, Nikki?"

"I like Marcelle's idea. Find something innocuous and hide it in plain sight. Alternatively, I'd break a weapon into parts and sneak it in one piece at a time. I'd disguise it in chaos. No one would notice an ordered weapon slipping past their defenses. Then I'd assemble it at the last moment. What about you, Zac?"

"Probably the same," he answered. "Just to be clear, though — I have no desire to hijack a plane."

"Actually," Javier chimed in, "have any of you ever been in a situation like that before?"

"You mean, have any of us ever hijacked a plane?" Zac laughed.

"No. I mean, have any of you ever been in real physical danger before? Have you ever been under attack?"

"I've played a little paintball in my time," I said. "Rick, you trained in the military, right?"

Rick nodded. "I lived in London during a big terrorist scare. Priya and I would eat at the mall all the time, and I was always on alert because that mall was one of the targets. When you've had military training, you're always assessing potential exits and possible attack points."

"Most men do that, don't they?" Zac asked. "I feel like it's a biological instinct. Whenever I walk into a building, I always assess the escape routes and potential threats."

"Interesting..." I mused. "I never think about these things."

Zac chuckled.

"What?!" I asked.

He looked at me with a grin. "If a terrorist walked into a coffee shop, you'd probably sit him down and engage him in a two-hour conversation about the meaning of life and the root cause of his anger. Then he'd shoot you, just to shut you up."

"Thanks." I threw a grape at his forehead.

"You just need to watch out for the kill zones," Javier said. "If the terrorists have any military training, they'll probably try to create a kill zone."

"What's that?" Marcelle asked.

"You herd your victims into a narrow area, so their movement is restricted."

"For example," Rick said, "it's counterintuitive, but the exits of a mall are kill zones. If the terrorists stand on a higher level and herd everyone towards the narrow exits, they'll have everyone trapped together in a small area, trying to escape."

"Then, when their movement is restricted, you slaughter them all at once," Javier finished.

Marcelle and I winced.

"It's very effective," he continued. "Horrible, obviously. But from a strategic point of view, you can kill a lot of people with a relatively small group. Many battles have been won that way. Sometimes you can even get one bullet going straight through multiple enemies."

"Ugh," Marcelle cringed.

"I can't stand blood and gore and killing. Can we move on from this?" I asked. "I need another drink. Do you have any gin downstairs, Zac? Preferably not of the Borrowdale Liquor variety. Can't say I'm a fan..."

Zac gave me the finger. He'd recently started a new company importing his own brand of liquor into Colombia. His business partner, a local liquor veteran, had approached Zac about the opportunity when the government began cracking down on illegal 'contraband' alcohol. Zac considered himself a connoisseur of premium products, but the market opportunity only existed for a cheap, low quality mainstream brand of generic cocktail spirits — the kind of hangover-inducing formula I used to drink as a teenager. Zac's local team had developed the product and come up with the brand name Borrowdale Liquor, much to Zac's dismay. They thought it sounded English and classy. Zac cared deeply about his legacy, and having his last name printed on a bottle of flavored ethanol didn't sit well with his ego.

"Oh, actually," I said as I pulled up an image on my phone. "I took the liberty of creating a shitty promotional graphic for the Borrowdale Liquor packaging range, featuring Zac's glorious face. We were deciding on a tagline for the company. These were the top contenders..."

Borrowdale Liquor — It'll do
Borrowdale Liquor — It won't make you blind
Borrowdale Liquor — At least it's legal
Borrowdale Liquor — Drown your shame, with ours
Borrowdale Liquor — If you lower your standards, we'll lower our prices

"And here's the new promo graphic..."

"Ah, Nikki," Zac sighed as the laughter died down. "I'm not saying I hate you, but I would definitely unplug your life support to charge my phone."

"Likewise, my friend."

"Actually," Zac said, "I have supermarkets wanting to private label my liquor. They don't care what the label is, as long as it looks English and not the same as the other supermarkets. Presenting… the newest addition to the Borrowdale Liquor range… a logo featuring my friend's glorious profile in an elaborate Victorian ensemble… Lady Nicole Ashley Durkinton's Budget Gin — All The Class, Half The Price."

"I love it!" I squealed. "I've always wanted to be the face of a South American gin brand. Everyone who drinks from my glorious bottle will have the most magnificent, magical night."

Zac snickered, "I can see the ad campaign now: have a magnificent, magical night with Lady Nicole. Bow chicka wow wow."

"Must you make everything sexual?" I asked as Marcelle shook her head and giggled.

"Yes," Zac replied. "And now, all this talk of sex is making me hungry. Do you want to go out to dinner, mi amor? Or eat in?"

"Let's see what's in the kitchen," Marcelle replied.

He took her hand, and they both wandered downstairs, towards the music and laughter.

"I'm going to look for food, too," Rick said as he hoisted himself out of the lounge chair.