Staring Contest

“Did it ever occur to you that you might be wrong?” Pen asked.

Seeing an opportunity to annoy her, Scotch countered. “What if I’m right?”

“You’re not.”

“There’s a chance that I am.”

Their eyes locked. Neither one backing down. One corner of Scotch’s mouth turned up, sparking a response from Pen. Color rose to her cheeks and her hazel eyes brightened.

“The organization is supposed to be a place that gathers intelligence. I was told that...” Pen hesitated and took a more direct route. “I don’t know who you people think you are or what kind of game you’re playing but I stated up front what I would and wouldn’t do. Killing is not on my resume. Violence is supposed to be used only when all other potential solutions have been exhausted.”

Scotch looked at the fire. “First, don’t quote Corporate directives to me. I know them.” He said turning to Pen. “All of them. Second, what gets put into the mission statement and what actually takes place can be two completely different animals. Thirdly, you just killed a man so as of tonight, killing is officially on your resume. It’s time you set aside that ‘I’m too squeaky clean to be a professional killer’ attitude.”

Pen looked at Scotch. “One botched death does not a professional killer make. Besides, an intelligence agency gathers information. How many people can they possibly need to kill?”

Scotch walked around the fire that separates them, he reached out to embrace her. “You poor misguided woman. You’re in over your head, aren’t you? Have you not looked up the death rate among spies?” He laughed for a moment. “Have you never watched a James Bond movie and counted the bodies?”

“People do that?”

“Spy Training Day One: The Realities Of Working As A Spy. People who return from lunch break and manage to keep everything down until the end of the day...let’s just say it’s reflected well in their files.”

“I’m fine.” Pen said as she stepped away from Scotch’s embrace.

“Doc said you had issues with people touching you.” Scotch released her, took a step back, and held both hands up so Pen could see them.

“Psych evaluation. I remember telling him. What else did he say?”

“It can be a double edged sword.” Scotch admitted. “A person who has a certain level of detachment makes a better killer.”

“I take it from the agency’s stand point that’s a good thing?” She asked.

He nodded.

“What’s the other side of the observation?”

“I’m going to keep that to myself.”

“For how long?” Pen asked.

“Until we’ve proven the doc wrong.”

Pen looked at Scotch closely and studied his face. The light danced across his features alternately illuminating some while hiding others, although he seemed relaxed as they witnessed the burning of evidence, he had to have been through countless of these clean up rituals, Scotch revealed nothing. It was a talent that was imperative to the survival of any successful spy, of that Pen was certain. Scotch had it and then some. He was also confident. Almost too confident. A blessing and a curse when it came to his line of work. It had to be useful when caught in unexpected situations. If a person can appear confident regardless of what was befalling them, they had a much higher chance of successfully navigating through the problem. The other side of that observation? A man who was too confident might be easily convinced that he had the upper hand when he did not. Pen wondered how easily Scotch could be convinced that he knew everything about their current situation and she did not. Pen knew what her plan was. Scotch did not need to know the details.

Scotch looked at the sky and his watch. “This will be through burning in another twenty minutes. I’ll text the clean up crew and we’ll pull out when they drive in. You can rest in the car if you’d like.”

Pen nodded and turned towards the car.

“Oh and Pen?”

Pen turned back to Scotch.

“You have the best escort at the agency. Relax. The missions will get easier.”

She nodded and turned back towards the drive and their car. “You're damn right it’s going to get easier. This was my one and only mission.” Pen whispered to herself as she walked away.

Three Weeks Later

Paris

The knocks coming from the other side of the false wall behind Pen startled her back to the task at hand.

“It was easier this time wasn’t it?”

She could hear Scotch’s voice through the narrow opening.

“It was.” She admitted. Pen looked at her target. He lay completely still. His eyes were open, as was his mouth. The poison had worked quickly. “He’s dead.” Pen announced.

“Already? Use the cyanide this time?”

“Actually...” Pen muttered to herself more than answered Scotch’s question.

“Huh?”

“He was dead when I got here.” Pen said.

“What?”

“The target was lying on the floor when I entered the room.”

“Why?”

Pen closed her eyes for a moment, took a deep breath, pulled open the false wall further and let her escort in. “When I entered the room the target was laying on the floor like this.” She said, gesturing towards the newly deceased.

“He was already dead?”

“For a seasoned agent you are really slow on the uptake tonight. Isn’t that what I just said?”

“A little stressed?” Scotch asked.

“This was my target that I just discovered already dead.”

“Now you don’t have to kill him. It looks like you’re getting paid this time for work that you didn’t even have to do. Nice going.” Scotch raised a hand near the crown of Pen’s head.

“Do not pat me on the head.”

“You have to admit that it was a job well done.” Scotch pointed out.

“For someone.” Pen looked away from the target and focused on Scotch. “What should we do?” She asked.

He took her by the arm, guided her into the darkened back passage and pointed to the stairs. “The job is done. Let’s go.”





* This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.