Disclaimer: I own nothing of the characters, geography, or anything else in here that you might recognize.
The man stood out. All around him were natives of Africa, most in colorful clothing. He was white, actually pale even for that, and he was wearing a grey suit, white shirt. No tie. Everyone was in motion, dancing, moving, shopping, working, traveling. He was standing still. Everyone was making noise, shouting, bargaining, screaming, talking. He stood silent. It's almost like he couldn't have tried to stand out more.
A dark car drove up, slowed to a stop, and a men jumped out, waved his gun at the white man, and signaled him in, at gunpoint. He nodded his head, smiled big, and got in.
The white man was sitting between two gunholders. One had a big machine gun, the other had a handgun, which he pointed at the white man's side.
"You know . . . Mercedes makes an SUV now," spoke the white man, fearlessly. "Big back seat. It's great. Surprisingly affordable, too."
The Nigerian man that had waved him in leaned forward, and spoke to the other. "See eye 'ey."
The white man just smiled at him.
They reached a large modern building, the Warri Grand Hotel, and got out. He was escorted inside, to a private room, with three more white men, and a native woman. These men, however, blended a bit more, from the color they wore.
"Welcome," one of them, Boris, said. "Mr. CIA."
"No, no, no, I don't work for anybody directly," the original white man answered. "That's why I get to do stuff like give you 750,000 dollars to stop doing stuff like blowing up oil refineries."
Boris stared at him for a moment, then started to laugh, which the white man joined in on quickly, both laughs as fake as a $3 bill.
After Boris accepted this, to a punch to the man's arm, they both went to find seats, Boris on the couch, the man on a footrest opposite him.
"Hi, hi, hi everybody," the original man said. He reached behind him, to the small of his back, and the two obvious bodyguards clicked their guns to readiness.
"Whoa, easy guys, just getting the map," the man said, soothingly, drawing just that from his back. However, the guards did not back up till Boris nodded it was okay.
Placing the map down, and flattening it, the man said "You guarantee security for the Nemby Oilfields, no fires, no explosions. Nobody falls in a swamp and gets eaten by an alligator."
"You mean crocodile," Boris corrected.
"Yes, that's what I mean, crocodile," the man responded. "We agreed?"
"Da." Boris pulled a folded piece of paper out from his pocket, and slid it across the table to the man.
Boris then pulled out a small computer, while the man accepted the paper.
"I'm now reaching into my jacket for my phone, so I can get this man his money," the white man said, slowly doing just that. "See?"
He got up, and took a few steps away, as he speed-dialed a number, and after a beat said "Yes, I have the wire transfer information, the ABA number is ...0210010175-" then paused. "Excuse me?"
He appeared to listen to the phone for a moment, then took his phone away from his ear, and pushed a button. Boris, behind him, stood up.
"Is there problem?" came in Boris' Russian accent.
"No," the man said, as he speed-dialed a number. "No problem, computer mixup, PC, Mac."
Turning away from Boris again, the man spoke in a harder voice to the phone. "Put your boss on the phone, right now." A beat, then "I have a wire transfer number, 020010-" He stopped, then closed his phone again.
Taking a moment, he reset his features into a big smile, and turned back to Boris. "Heh, heh, heh, heh."
The man could barely hear Boris calling him a "CIA bastard, you CIA bastard" over the sounds of the other 4 men kicking and stomping him, as he was curled on the floor. "You think you can steal from me?"
"Enough. Enough! Pick him up," Boris said, after several more moments.
The man groaned as he was ungently picked up off the floor. "I've got the money, it's not here..." he tried to explain to Boris. "I can take you to it, though. I was going to steal, and blame it on you guys, it's not personal, okay? I was just - what I was gonna do." Boris got right in the man's face, and the man continued to babble out excuses. "Twenty minutes, you'll have your money, I promise."
Boris stared into the man's face, nodded and said to his men "Take him."
The white man, and the original two men who brought him now 'escorted' his stumbling form out of the elevator.
"I need the bathroom," the man forced out, bending over, clutching his stomach. "I'm gonna be sick, I'm gonna - Wait, wait! I'm gonna be sick, I need the bathroom. I-I'm gonna be sick inna Mercedes, you understand?" A large globule of blood, spit, and other things came out of his mouth, causing one of the men to jump back. "In the Mercedes, blood everywhere."
The two men grabbed his arms, and switched directions, dragging him back to the public restrooms, as he again groaned.
The first guard went in first to check out the bathroom. The man took advantage of things, elbowing the second guard, grabbing the back of his neck, and throwing him into the sinks. He then raced into the bathroom, punched the second guard in the throat, and wrenched his rifle out of his hands, while bending the guard's elbow in a direction it wasn't supposed to go. After bouncing the guard off the mirrors, the white man threw him into the back of a urinal, knocking him out.
The white man stripped a pistol off the guard, then headed back where he had left the second one. From outside, two muffled thumps were shortly heard, before the white man limped out of the bathroom, and out of the hotel.
Outside the hotel, he acted casual, until he reached a Motorbike messenger, standing by his bike, then threw the messenger to the ground. He quickly got on, put on the helmet, and said "Sorry, I'll leave it by the airport."
Taking off, he almost ran down two more of Boris' guards, and left the Hotel's parking lot. The men scrambled for the Mercedes, and followed him into traffic.
The passenger in the Mercedes seemed to have no problem with firing off his machine gun, no matter how crowded the streets, said crowds also slowing the man on his newly 'acquired' motorbike. The beating the man had taken also had him jittery, slowing him down, allowing the car to keep up.
Eventually, the man used the manueverability of the bike to head through a street market, and force the Mercedes to crash, letting him get free.
At the airport, the man drove right onto the tarmac, gave a small bribe to the guards, along with the motorbike, and limped to the next plane. It's tail registry number was UR-4683. He bought a ticket right there, and climbed the loading ramp, before stumbling to his seat. The stewardess's and even one of the pilots shortly surrounded his seat, as he began convulsing from the effects of the beating, then passed out.
He woke to someone kicking him in the butt, and groaned as he began mentally cataloguing his bruises, contusions, and cracked ribs. "Oh, no..." he groaned out, before a female voice came to his attention.
"You're a lucky man. That many bruises, anyone would think you fell under a truck," the woman said in an Irish accent.
"Fiona, what are you doing?" the man asked, rubbing his eyes.
"You've been out for a couple of days. The maid got curious, went through your stuff, you still have me in your wallet as your emergency contact," she said, waving said wallet in the air. She whispered "You take that out when you leave someone, you know."
"Flattered you came."
"Don't be. I needed to get out of New York anyway," she said, straightening and standing. "Old associates sniffing around. And I wanted to try someplace sunny."
She paced to the window, then turned back to him. "And it sounded like you might - die. I-I wanted to be there. At the end. To tell you what a bastard you were." She sat on the other bed in the motel room.
The man slowly moved, and sat up. "Sunny...where am I?"
"Some shithole called Sunnydale. Apparently you collapsed on the flight out of Nigeria."
A/N: I know the chronology doesn't line up, but . . . I had the idea, and it was too delicious not to follow up on. I'm thinking it would be the beginning of season 2 in BTVS, and obviously season 1 in Burn Notice.
And, I'm opening this up. If you have a story that you feel would fit, please, feel free to submit it! I'm thinking the stories might crossover, but not intersect. This isn't Michael in Buffy, it's Burn Notice in Sunnydale. If that makes sense.
He wouldn't have access to his Mom or Same Axe, but would no doubt have access to other contacts, and his brother lives in Vegas, not too far away. Plus, of course, totally different missions!