Scotch's Mission

Pen looked at the man laying on the ground in front of her. He was older, heavy set, slightly disheveled looking, and he was familiar. But the mustache there was something about the mustache. She reached out with one gloved hand, took the outer edge of the mustache between two fingers, and pulled. The mustache began to come away from his face. She recognized him.

“Scotch, could you come here for a moment.” She whispered into her microphone. “Please? We have a problem.”

“Was the job done by another agency again? Relax Pen, it’s another freebee.”

“It’s not that he’s already dead. It’s the victim. You need to come over here.” Pen responded.

“We are working out in the open this time. Need I remind you that you are on a timer.”

Scotch looked up and found Pen glaring at him.

“Stop acting like such a...supervisor and get over here.” She said as she took him by the arm and led him to the body.

Scotch’s smile disappeared when he saw their target. McKinney was lying face down his head turned to one side. His eyes stared in the direction of the sunset, one arm extended. “No...no...no...not McKinney.” The spy squatted next to his mentor’s body in disbelief taking in the sight before him. He bowed his head. After several minutes he looked at Pen.

“Let me.” She said.

Scotch cooperated when Pen led him to a nearby tree stump. He watched as she studied the gunshot wound to the back of McKinney’s head, took notes that she carefully tucked into a pocket, then retrieved something from his open hand. Pen gently closed McKinney’s eyes and returned to Scotch.

“I found this. It’s a clue and I think we should keep it.” She said as she handed Scotch a cell phone.

He didn’t argue or rattle off a single directive.

“There’s no GPS on the phone. I’ve already checked it.”

Scotch looked at the stop watch in his other hand. They did not make good time on this mission. It occurred to him that he really didn’t care about records and lost accolades as he turned off the watch and put it in his pocket. He wasn’t sure if he would ever care again. 

After clean up, Pen drove them back into London slowly. It was still early. The paperwork would take little time. She wanted to study Scotch and try to gauge what he might need after losing someone that he was close to. The spy was quiet. Eerily quiet. It was so unlike the confident demeanor he usually radiated. Pen found it unsettling.

Headquarters was noticeably empty when they arrived. It was the height of the late dinner break. The pair finished with the paperwork just as people were returning to their desks. They did not speak until they were outside the Cock’s Comb preparing to part ways.

“Are you going home? Would you like to go into the pub? I’ll buy dinner.” She offered.

Scotch looked around for a moment, then he glanced into the crowd of merrymakers inside. “No.”

“Somewhere else?”

“It’s okay to leave me alone Pen. I’m going to be alright.”

She looked at her watch. “It’s barely eight. What are you going to do all night.”

He thought for a moment and said,“I’m going to pretend I’m you. I’m going to go home, take a shower, pour myself a drink and take a rest. Toast the friend that I just lost.”

“And then?”

“I might putter around with this.” Scotch said as he gestured to phone in his pocket. “Trust me by tomorrow morning I will be the same man you know and love.”

Pen sighed.

“The same man you have grown to admire and respect.”

Pen raised an eyebrow.

“The same man that you no longer want to kill every day?”

Scotch looked into Pen’s eyes. “I’m going to be fine. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“First thing?” She asked.

“First thing.”

Pen left Scotch in front of the Cock’s Comb wondering if it would be the last time they spoke.

Pen’s phone beeped at her at the ungodly hour of five-thirty a.m.

Hello. I’m looking for my pen. Have you seen her?--S.

Pen looked at the phone and frowned. She looked at her alarm clock. “Five-thirty in the morning? Really?”

Are you drunk?-- P

Pen answered, falling back into her cocoon of blankets and pillows.

Get out of bed sleepy head your shift started ten minutes ago. -– S.

“Damn Englishman.” Pen grumbled as she climbed out of bed. She made it to Scotch’s apartment in twenty minutes flat.

He opened the door before she had the chance to knock. “It’s about time you showed up. I’ve been working for hours.” Scotch lifted a cup to his lips, his eyes bright with untold secrets of adventures yet to be taken like a boy on the first day of summer vacation.

“What’s in the cup?”

“Espresso. A fine Turkish blend I stumbled across about five years ago. In a whorehouse.”

Pen looked at him unhappy at the sudden change in her day, the rushed morning, the lack of coffee in her own possession. The fact that he was so cheerful. “Of course. Everyone knows that the only place to find the good coffee is in a whorehouse.”

Scotch held up a large mug. “I made you the regular stuff. Go ahead, drink.”

Pen nodded, he had made a good cup of coffee.

He reached out and took her by the arm. “Good now that you’ve had some coffee, let’s get to work.” Scotch led her straight into the secret room.

“I get the impression that you’ve found something.”

“I did. McKinney had an app open on his phone when he died. A social media app.”

“Wouldn’t having any kind of digital footprint be dangerous to anyone doing intelligence work?” Pen asked.

“Suicide. It would be suicide.”