Pneuma walked silently up the aisle of the departing airplace, unnoticed by both the staff and the passengers.
He'd made his way through customs without once seeing a security guard or walking through a metal detector. And he'd simply strolled through the gate towards the plane without having to present a boarding pass to anyone.
And here he was, on the plane, and he'd found what he was after. A row of empty seats, near the back of the plane. He wouldn't have to stand, or sit in the aisle, after all.
While he wouldn't have had any real problem with ejecting someone from their seat, it would draw unnecessary attention.
He sat down in one of the empty seats and relaxed. He raised one hand and ran it over the opposite wrist, checking things. The guantlets remained in perfect working order, so he could still appear completely invisible to the naked eye for as long as he wished. He smiled.
Project Omicron was over. That much he was sure of. Johnny was dead, and the others had been apprehended by that other team of mercenaries. Even if they managed to reorganise themselves, their reputation was shot.
No, Pneuma would have to forget any possible future employment by Project Omicron.
But that didn't really matter. After all, he knew where they kept all their money. The quite impressive profits from their various missions. He knew the bank account numbers and locations of safe deposit boxes.
He knew secrets that even Johnny Omicron had thought private.
Yes, Pneuma could set himself up rather nicely.
Of course, the other team members wouldn't like it when they came for their share of the profit and found it gone. They'd be rather pissed off. But he doubted they'd come after him.
And if they did... well, he knew their secrets, too.
As a stewardess walked past, Pneuma grabbed a beer from the back of the cart, and knocked a packet of peanuts onto the floor. He picked up the peanuts, then unscrewed the top of the beer.
