"A very lost tourist, a dumbly curious man, or a very suicidal writer," Booker explained candidly to an irate army man viciously asking who in the love of fuck he thought he was inside of a secluded area of Aleppo. For good reason though, there aren't many dark-haired, blue-eyed, Europeans sporting cameras and smug grins in the heart of Aleppo. Maybe, possibly, suicidal writer was the perfect fit for our lunatic. Or an investigative Journalist. Booker Davies would hastily reply, as Sherlock Holmes would to 'High Functioning Sociopath'.
The army man tossed a few of his dozens of empty threats at a man that he perceived as, well, just not a capable threat. This was his mistake, Booker was no killer but also wasn't totally against screaming one unceasing note at a man with a loaded gun and scaring the living shit out of him. Giving him the perfect opportunity to trip, and unarm a man with positively a plethora of men armed and quiet less forgiving than him near. Just maybe Booker didn't think this one totally, completely, through. But this is far too into the plot for our story.
