1
If
only the leather rifle case was in front of him. He would pack it in:
the sniper rifle, the assignment, his career. The smell of damp tar
filled Jack's nostrils as he lowered his head. The fumes made his
eyes water and his headache intensified. It was far too late to back
out.
Nestling
the bi-pod into the roof gutter, he double checked his right knee. It
was at a perfect, ninety degree angle. He never checked his leg, why
now? However abnormal, given what had happened, it was a wise
precaution.
Jack
fixed the M40 bolt-action sniper rifle firmly in the pocket of his
shoulder through the gentle pull of his fingers, then closed his
eyes. He tried to meditate on the sound of dead leaves scattering
around him and the din of traffic below - the final engagement with
the world before he shut the door on all distractions. A sharp leaf
from a tree on the roof pricked his neck. Jack scowled at the sky.
Jack
gripped the small of the stock behind the trigger; his skin tingled
as it pressed against the cold cheek piece. His brain resisted the
usual coaxing, coming up with words of discouragement. He sighed.
Impatient honks from the traffic still had his full attention.
There
was still a vestige of evening light in the sky and he was an
imperceptible dot. Even if he stood up, his six foot body would go
unnoticed. Why the angst? Jack rubbed the ice cold metal with his
cheek whilst cold sweat trickled down his brow, despite the raw air.
He
lowered his eye to the scope.
Tunnel
vision, so familiar to him, refused to expel his rogue thoughts from
his head.
One
block away, on the third floor, the light came on in the corner room
of the hotel. Jack adjusted the cross-hairs. The obese man in his
sights fitted the description. The target shuffled his feet behind a
stroller seat walker. He dragged his weight to the other end of the
room and allowed himself to fall onto a sofa. He spread his arms on
the backrest and wiggled to shift his torso. His flabby jowls shook
as his head turned towards the window. The look suggested that he
would have preferred the curtains to be drawn closed.
A
rush of static killed the last hopes of Jack's latent focusing
abilities returning to him.
“Bravo,
Beta's companion has arrived. Moving into position. Ten twelve,”
came the voice of Jack's fellow American CIA member.
10-12.
Standby. The earpiece was an itch that Jack could not scratch. He had
reached the stage when the quick-set plaster began to set. He had to
lie stiff and motionless, the cast only to be removed safely once the
job was done.
The
target rocked forward; his arms reached down to lift a metal
briefcase. The man set the briefcase down on his lap. His sausage
fingers flicked the latches and he inspected the contents and lifted
a brochure in his swollen hands. Jack's brow creased. Inside the
briefcase, bundles of cash were visible now that the briefcase had
been placed on the sofa. The brochure opened. The graphic on the
cover was a large DNA double-helix. Jack's chest tightened.
The
target dropped the brochure and clutched the handles of his walker;
he looked in the direction of the door – stage left, Jack's right.
Jack panned to the door where a slender woman stood.
The cross-hairs returned to the target on the
other side of the room. The man appraised the woman's figure with a
salacious grin. He beckoned her with his flapping hand to join him on
the sofa.
The
cross-hairs returned to the woman's perfectly symmetrical face. Her
radiant red hair shimmered under the spotlights. Her
complexion was as white as milk and looked almost wax-like. Full lips
formed a meek smile as she drew wisps of hair behind her ears. The
spaghetti straps of her negligee rolled off her shoulders and the
garment fell to her ankles. Jack simply observed as she padded over
to the target. Logically, he knew how provocative she was.
The duo both fitted inside Jack's narrow,
circular field of view, making the contrast between youthful radiance
and shameless old age momentous.
Still no green light for the kill shot.
The woman sank to her knees and placed her
hands flat on the man's tree trunk thighs. That did not explain why
there was so much cash. The cross-hairs converged on the target's
forehead. A lecherous grin caused the doughy face to open. The man
tilted his head back and grabbed a fistful of the woman's hair. He
swept it away from her shoulder, revealing a tattoo the size of the
man's hand. The swirling black ink in her pale skin stood out – a
DNA double-helix tattoo.
The instructions played like a looped audio
track in Jack's head.
It's imperative, Jack, shoot when
instructed to. The target's companion escapes, got it? She'll run
straight into our arms.
The target pushed the woman's face away and
she lost her balance and fell onto her hip. She flicked her hair and
placed her hands back on the man's thighs with deft, mechanical
motions. The man gripped her wrists and motioned to the door, her
right wrist still clutched in the hand he used to point.
Jack felt the back of his teeth with his
tongue, unable to decide whether to focus the cross-hairs on the
target or see what had interrupted the private rendezvous. He bit his
lip, brow strained, eyes aching from not blinking. It was too
tempting. Jack removed his finger from the trigger and panned to the
door.
There was no table on wheels, no
covered silver platter - not room service. A man wearing jeans, a
dark knit sweater, and a balaclava stood in the doorway.
Jack redirected the cross-hairs left. The
woman jumped up on the sofa, shielding the obese man's face with her
torso. Her breasts bounced as she secured her footing on the
cushions. Jack ground his teeth, unable to decide which side of the
room to focus on.
“Bravo,” came the familiar, clipped voice.
“Crash. Beta is now the man who just entered. Kill the newcomer.”
Blood laced with adrenaline rushed to Jack's
head.
“Bravo, do you copy?”
Jack managed a hasty “copy that” before
another gust of wind slapped his face and lifted his fringe. It was
as though a freezing wet towel was pressed against his exposed waist.
He bit his numb lip.
The newcomer entered Jack's field of view and
circled the sofa. He held a gun. He moved to the window and partially
blocked the view of the almost naked woman and the man beneath her.
The cross-hairs converged on the back of the
newcomer's head. The hairs prickled on the back of Jack's neck. He
just needed to follow orders: ignore the fat man, ignore the woman,
kill the newcomer. Jack inhaled air deep through his nostrils. It was
ice cold. He flinched.
A slender vase near the window covered up the
gap between the sedentary man's thighs. The newcomer had moved and
the three people in the hotel room appeared to be frozen in time and
space. An exchange of words stalling the trigger happy newcomer?
The woman stepped down from the sofa. The
newcomer nodded in agreement as she picked up the briefcase. Jack
tried to swallow but his tongue refused to move without sufficient
moisture. The newcomer circled the duo. The woman pivoted on the ball
of her foot to keep shielding the sedentary man. She held the
briefcase out in her bent arm, her DNA double-helix tattoo just
visible. The newcomer stood perfectly still. This was it. Jack's
heart raced. Time to pull the trigger.
The woman flung the briefcase and it struck
the newcomer square on the jaw.
Jack squeezed the trigger.
The round was expelled from the chamber.
Missed.
Shards of ceramic covered the floor in front of the sofa
and red tulips lay scattered.
Next
round.
The target scrambled to his feet and knocked
the woman over. He picked the briefcase up deftly and jolted towards
the door, weapon raised. Jack adjusted his aim, the quick movements
taunting him. The target was out of sight and the woman lay still on
the floor. Her blood blended with the tulips - shot dead by the
newcomer.
Jack's
teeth bit the inside of his mouth. He lifted the weapon and unscrewed
the muzzle brake suppressor, then slung the bag across his shoulder.
The contents prodded him in the back as he sprinted. At the other
side of the roof, Jack skidded to a halt and grabbed hold of a
ladder. He peeled his warm leather glove off his firing hand. The
palm was bloody, sliced open by the rusty pin he had pulled out that
released the lower half of the ladder. The ladder clattered to a halt
below and swayed back and forth. The pit of his stomach protested.
Jack held his firing hand out flat. It was trembling.
On
the street, Jack paused to check the corner from a distance. His
colleague was not there.
Adrenaline coursed through his body. He glanced at his watch. Rush hour was over and the get away would be quick. Jack sprinted, fighting the urge to yank the ear piece out. “Free. I Failed. I Failed.”
Adrenaline coursed through his body. He glanced at his watch. Rush hour was over and the get away would be quick. Jack sprinted, fighting the urge to yank the ear piece out. “Free. I Failed. I Failed.”
“Copy.
Bravo, knot.”
Negative.
The order to meet by the rendezvous point was preposterous.
He
would rather die. An acidic heat brushed the back of his throat.
Gagging, Jack sprinted towards the hotel. Towards the killer.
Jack
shoulder-barged a revolving door at the top of a set of white marble
steps. He visualised the hotel floor plans and hurried past a
security guard and concierges inside the lobby, towards the first
place he could think to check. An inner courtyard with a passage-way
at the back enabled access to the street and the hotel's underground
parking lot.
Jack
sprinted past an elderly couple drinking tea in the lounge, towards
the door at the back. He shoulder-barged it but it rattled in its
frame in protest. As he pulled the handle towards him, his eyes
briefly locked with those of the smug woman, her partner oblivious.
Jack
slammed the door behind his back.
His
team mate Clive was nowhere to be seen. After another scan, he
spotted a patch of light behind a fountain. The light shone between a
tall copper mermaid's elbow and the horn it was holding up to its
mouth. The sound of falling water rapidly increased and decreased in
a wave as Jack darted past the copper-plated fountain, towards the
light and the parking lot beyond.
Lights
should have remained on for hotel guests. A sliver of light from a
window illuminated a sign on a door that read, “PARKING.”
Something was wedged between the door and the frame. A foot. Jack
pulled his Beretta out of his shoulder holster and felt around
on the other side of the wall for a light switch. The lights did not
come on. He turned his flashlight on and held it in his left hand
over the top of his right forearm, the gun gripped tight in his right
hand. The door slammed into the wall from the force of the kick.
He
was inside a stairwell. He swept from left to right.
Jack
peered down. Clive lay spread-eagled on the floor, his chin in his
chest, head propped up by a banister. The crimson spot between the
tall, muscular man's closed eyes explained his fate. Jack had never
knocked his boxing buddy to the mat. Today he lay dead. A surge of
adrenaline rushed through Jack's body.
Clive's
Beretta had been taken.
“Alpha,
do you copy?” came the voice of Jack's fellow American CIA member.
There was a rush of static. “Knot. Repeat, knot.”
Negative.
No rendezvous until the fucker's dead.
Jack
squinted and tried to peer beyond the banister, his stomach twisting.
It was too dark to make out anything beyond Clive's limp body. The
light from the flashlight was too weak. Jack felt his teeth dig into
his lip. Clive's blood had spread to Jack's feet. The target was no
longer a mere shape in his scope. He would go after the newcomer and
beat him to a pulp with his bare hands. There would be no rendezvous
until the killer was stone cold dead, like Clive.
Too
much empathy, that's your problem, son,
Jack heard his father's voice say.
Don't want to kill, don't want to eat. Don't worry, the deer won't
know what hit him. Minute you start feeling, you've lost. Blinking
hard, Jack squeezed the hand rail tightly, then crept down the
stairs, into the dark.
2
“Did
you go through it?” the young psychologist asked, pointing at the
report.
Fischer
wondered whether the man was aware of his body language or if he
enjoyed emasculating himself. “Yeah,” he replied. He could not
make out the psychologist's name on the file in front of him. The
letters were upside down and, without his spectacles on, Fischer
remained clueless. “But I didn't understand your psycho-babble. Who
else am I supposed to send? Jack is the man for the job.”
“You
need to consider my assessment.”
“Why?”
“Jack
Flynn still wears his ring. The poor chap hasn't been the same - not
himself,” the psychologist said, as though he actually knew Jack.
The young man looked aloof as he wiped his spectacles with a
handkerchief, then felt his head to make sure that his neat parting
was not jeopardised by loose hairs.
“You
married?” Fischer asked, glancing at the young man's naked finger.
“Ever been married?”
The
psychologist frowned and held his spectacles up towards the
florescent light, squinting as he inspected them. “My personal life
is inconsequential. Brown agrees with my assessment.”
“Why?”
“Jack's
responded very negatively to high pressure situations in the past.”
The psychologist pressed the bridge of his spectacles in place with
his finger. “My assessment – it's not just a hunch you see. His
failure in Afghanistan was the root cause of his other failures.
Patterns shouldn't be overlooked. I wouldn't trust him to take on a
new, important assignment.”
Fischer
waved his giant, wrinkled hand. “His performance appraisal reports
have always been good,” he said, laying on his Texan accent extra
thick as he dismissed the upper class Brit's disparaging comments.
“Didn't Brown show you those reports?”
“I
know the chap's performed well in the past. But he's got three
negative reference points for that particular type of scenario.
There's always been zero room for error.”
“Zero
room for error huh. Is that how Brown put it to ya?”
“It's
a trend. I figured—”
“Figured?”
Fischer said, scratching his temple with the end of his silver
fountain pen.
“The
thought of failure could trigger a stress response next time. If he's
put under the same pressure.”
“Oh,
come on. Just say it.”
“What?”
“You
think he's just another jarhead gone loco huh?”
“Gosh.”
“But
I guess you can't write that. So he's got three negative points in
your book. What's the third, doctor?”
“Reference
points. Points of reference. He missed a vital shot in Bucharest most
recently.”
Fischer
caught himself crinkling the first page of Jack's psych report with
his fingers. “And?” The psychologist's eyes averted his.
“Brown
agrees with my assessment,” the psychologist repeated. “We
agree you should opt for someone else this time.” The psychologist
offered a smile that did not reach his eyes, his facial muscles
strained. “This assignment's going to require close collaboration.
The majority of Jack's successful missions have been completed
with... limited teamwork,” he said, stroking his lapels.
Fischer
stared incredulously at the psychologist. The young man held his
gaze. As the Deputy Director of Operations, Brown had stamped his
authority but the decision was still his to make, nobody else's. Jack
Flynn was the man for the job.
“Look,
Jack was in the Marines damn it,” Fischer said, his feet tapping
the floor involuntarily.
“Yes,
I'm well aware. But he wasn't really one of them from what I've
gathered. The chap has a rather independent mind.”
“Independent
mind,” Fischer repeated sarcastically. “You wrote he passed the
physical right?”
“Yes,
he passed. Just. Jack has plateaued when it comes to strength and his
stamina is not great but I suppose it's to be expected at his age.”
Fischer forced a laugh. “You're tellin' me. He's only
thirty-eight.”
“Passed
the medical evaluation too, as I wrote.”
“Two
out of two. There you go, the ivory tower team should be happy with
that, right? Chuffed, that
the British expression? What are your thoughts on Yi Ling?”
“Ling?
Highly competent. I mean, she
got the highest test score in the academy's history. Seemed to know
where the best locations were to plant those bugs through intuition.”
“I
know what she can do. I've seen her test scores. What's she like? As
a person. Any... issues?”
“She's
healthy, no family history that would set off alarm bells. From what
I hear, her tech skills are unparalleled. Came in handy in Paris. Ah,
sorry, I've said too much,” the psychologist said. His eyes
sparkled with self-satisfaction. “Passed the post-assignment psych
evaluation sans probleme. Quite frankly, she seemed unperturbed by it
all.”
“So
she likes it rough? Ain't mean much.”
“What?”
“Ain't
seen nothin'. She didn't kill anybody in Paris, right?”
“No.”
“Tell
me doc, have you ever killed
a man?”
“Goodness.
Look, I don't feel comfortable joking about such an unsettling
topic.”
“Changes
a man. And Jack's attention to detail's – I've never seen anything
like it. But you've got that written down in your file, right? Brown
tell you this?”
“Brown
was forthcoming. He stressed that you need to take my assessment very
seriously.”
Fischer
glanced at his watch. “Oh, looks
like time's up. I've got another meetin',” he said, hastily
standing up. His six foot six frame towered over the psychologist.
“It was a pleasure. I'll get back to you, all right.” The fingers
of his left hand squeezed into a tight fist as he offered his right
hand.
Fischer
followed the short young man to the door and ushered him out. Once
the door clicked shut, he slumped back into his leather-padded chair
and returned his attention to the stacks of paper spread around his
large mahogany desk. He extracted a cigar from his breast pocket and
ran the entire length of the wrapping under his nose, allowing the
familiar tobacco scent to fill his nostrils.
At
least the rapid technological advancement of society had not put an
end to the manufacture of traditional cigars. Fischer lit up and took
a few short puffs. The
insides of his cheeks grew warm and his shoulders relaxed. As he
watched one smoke ring chase another, he let the significance of Jack
Flynn's failure fade.
3
“What
am I dealing with?” Jack asked.
“Guy's
called Lazar. A Romanian criminal,” Fischer said. “You'll want to
remember that name, all right. Lazar. Was investigated for money
launderin' months back. Somehow the case files got lost and the case
was dropped. See, our friend Jones infiltrated Lazar's crime
syndicate.”
“Okay.
Who's Jones?”
“Don't
worry about Jones. He's not important. Not anymore. So, you remember
the guy you were s'pose to kill?”
“Yeah,”
Jack said. It was difficult to forget a botched assassination attempt
in freezing Bucharest. Fischer's slow Texan drawl added to the
condescension. The question was not uncharacteristic of the pompous
way Fischer ensured that everybody understood things as well as he
did.
“Jones
identified the guy you were s'pose to kill,” Fischer said, a thick
cigar moving up and down between his fleshy lips as he spoke.
“Specifically, the guy you failed to kill is Lazar's right hand
man, name's Artur Groza. He's another Romanian. If you'd killed Artur
Groza, crap would'a hit the fan big time for Lazar. Thought you
should know,” Fischer added casually.
Jack
let the revelation sink in whilst he watched Fischer tilt his head
back. The Texan puffed away furiously, then blew a thick cloud of
smoke. As with all of the people he had been sent to kill in the
past, Jack had simply followed orders, no questions asked.
In
the most recent dream, Artur Groza had smelled red tulips grasped in
his hand, then thrown the flowers onto the obese man, who lay dead.
In the dream, the woman had never shown up. Dreams distorted reality
in bizarre ways. What would his subconscious come up with next?
“...
And anyone who tries to tell you somethin' different doesn't know
what they're talkin' about,” Fischer said.
Jack
straightened his back and took a sip of water. “How was Lazar's
crime syndicate infiltrated?”
“Jones...
he's CIA... infiltrated the crime syndicate months back. You been
listenin' to a single word I just said?”
“No.
Yeah, I meant, how did Jones infiltrate Lazar's organisation? I'm
guessing Lazar didn't know that Jones was CIA?”
“Well
course not. Don't worry about that. Look, before Lazar and his guys
smelled a rat and blew Jones' brains out, Jones sent us some intel
from Singapore. That's where the team's pickin' up a scent. Our
people are lookin' for Lazar in Singapore right now.”
“The
CIA is onto this big fish Lazar,” Jack said, thinking aloud. “I'm
guessing this is where I come in?”
“Well
done Jack, really, well done. I've got a meetin' with Brown later.
Goin' to decide who's goin' with you to Singapore. We're lookin' at
Yi Ling as your partner. But don't worry about her just yet. And I
didn't mention her name, okay? I've got some homework for you.
Straight from Brown himself.”
Jack
took another sip of water. Fischer and Brown – the Deputy Director
of Operations - would discuss more than just Yi Ling, if they even
discussed her at all. Their shared passion for cigars seemed
insatiable. The old-timers were true chums and were too wary of
stepping on each other's feet to question each other's decisions.
Brown's
official blessing was purely a formality. Jack was irritable from the
lack of sleep and annoyed by Fischer's way of formulating things -
his indirectness. “Homework?”
“Brown said the agent I want to send to Singapore can get started
with these files. I want you,” Fischer said, pointing his finger
like an Uncle Sam recruitment poster. Fischer let out a burst of
laughter. “You passed everythin.' You're good to go,” he added
with a rueful grin, tapping a set of files. “P-L-R-H. Proscribed
and Limited, Restricted Handling. Mum's the word, right. I'm going to
brief Yi in full tomorrow mornin'. I've told her to go ahead and do
the pre-mission weapons test. Brown's just - it's just a formality.”
“Here
you go,” Fischer said, pushing the files forcefully into Jack's
chest. “I'll get back to you. Oh, and you'll go see
the techies a.s.a.p. They've got somethin' for you. A little
goin' away gift.”
Jack
shut the door and heard Fischer curse vehemently. Something
shattered and showered the tile floor with the sound of wind chimes.
Fischer had done a sloppy job of covering psych reports on the desk
with a newspaper – Singapore Today.
Jack
tapped the files with his fingers. He had the chance to track down
and kill the man he had failed to kill. He could still avenge Clive.
So much weight had been lifted off his shoulders. The opportunity to
clean up the Bucharest mess gave him renewed energy and the corners
of his mouth twisted up into a smile.
As
the elevator doors began to close, Jack reached into his breast
pocket for his wedding ring. The ring usually absorbed his attention.
He rolled it between his thumb and index finger. Standing inside
cramped elevators had become a phobia. How had that come about? He
questioned the reliability of a relatively thin cable lifting you up
tens of metres in the air as you dangled perilously, trapped between
four walls. When was the first time he had ever thought about
elevator cables?
Old
elevators were the worst. The way they creaked and shuddered as they
descended was nauseating. Thankfully, he was alone. Jack imagined the
cable snapping like a piece of string cut without warning. A
chill spread at the pit of his stomach. He rubbed the ring.
Fusing a lock of hair into the platinum had cost a fortune. How much
had he paid for that?
Jack
exited the elevator at ground level and continued past large historic
maps of London and Paris. He reached a series of windows that framed
an inner courtyard. A group sat around a table under a tree, drinking
coffee and chatting. He continued to navigate his way through the
maze-like ground floor of the Old Headquarters Building. He stopped
by The Coffee Cart and, as if on auto-pilot, found himself sliding
three one dollar bills out of his wallet. “The usual please.
Here, it's three dollars.”
It
took a short while for the blind barrista to feel around for the
correct change. “Hi Jack. Here you go, fifty cents change.
“Thanks
Bill.”
“Here you go. Your black Americano. Watch your step, it's hot.”
“I'll be careful,” Jack said, forcing a laugh. “You take care,
all right.”
Jack
took a cautious sip of the steaming brew and resumed his stroll until
he saw the distinctly Asian art work in the corridor of the
East Asia Division. He smiled at the CIA's unceasing need for
acronyms. He reached the relevant door and punched in the code on the
cipher lock close to the acronym. Did anyone know what they actually
stood for?
Jack
found an empty conference room, dropped the files on the desk, and
stroked his temples, preparing to engage his photographic memory.
Once he had finished going through the Proscribed and Limited and
Restricted Handling project files he would meet the tech people.
Evidently, the project was not widely known in the Agency and was
closely held. He wandered who else knew about the project. The back
of his neck tingled as though a spider was creeping up it.
“You'll
use this laptop to write your observations, surveillance reports and
stuff. It's built into the bullet-proof metal case,” a young, male
technician said. “Only your thumb prints can unlock it.”
“Very
nice,” Jack said. “And my exploding pen?”
“Pen?”
The technician frowned and unlocked a drawer under a desk using a key
attached to his chinos by a retractable chord. He wore thick rimmed
spectacles and a sleeveless blue shirt that was too loose-fitting for
his skinny frame. Tech geeks did little to change the stereotype of
themselves. “This is for you too,” the technician said, finding
whatever it was he had been looking for.
“What's
this? Lipstick? I think you've got me confused with someone else,”
Jack said.
The
technician laughed. “Don't worry Flynn. Only kidding. It's for Yi
Ling. What's she like? Must be looking forward to working with her.
Steve told me her dad started teaching her Aikido when she was a kid.
Says the guys at the academy don't stand a chance in hell against
her. Get their asses handed to them every time.”
Jack
shrugged. “Isn't Aikido a Japanese martial art?”
“Yeah,
think so.”
“Ling
is a Chinese name, so why would her dad teach her a Japanese martial
art if he's Chinese?”
“Her
mum's Japanese I think. Guess it must have been her mum who taught
her.”
Jack
gave the technician a sceptical look. “Look, I have no idea what
she's like. Never met her. Whoever told you we're working
together...”
The
technician blushed and scratched his pimpled neck. “Nobody said
that. I'm just assuming, based on—”
“Don't
assume. I wouldn't be surprised if she's never seen one of these by
the sound of things though. Good thinking.”
The
technician laughed. “Well, it's a good thing you can see what it's
supposed to resemble. It's a new type of CD.”
“You
had me fooled, could have sworn it was supposed to resemble lipstick.
But hey, I hope it plays Foo Fighters,” Jack said. He cringed in
his mind.
The
technician laughed on cue. “No. It's a concealment device. There's
a hidden cavity in the case. Look, here. The device inside sends out
a radio distress signal. If Ling gets into trouble, all she has to do
is twist it. Like this. She'll be in good hands though, won't she?”
“Look,
what's your name?” Jack asked.
“Sorry,
sorry. I should have introduced myself properly. Otto.”
“Whatever,
here's the thing, Yi Ling and I have got nothing to do with each
other.”
The
technician's face fell but a hint of scepticism lingered. “Don't
worry, I've got one for you too.”
“Lipstick?”
“Do
you want lipstick?”
Jack
stared at the technician with a straight face.
“Sorry,
just a joke. You get a cigarette lighter. Similar though. You've just
got to keep the flame alive for at least two full seconds.”
“Thanks
for the toys Q.”
The
technician's supplicating smile dissolved. “They're not toys. This
is the real deal. The lipstick, please?”
Jack
flicked the lighter fondly as he peered down at the wide expanse of
the academy shooting range. Why was so much money pumped into the
bizarre, state-of-the-art academy building? It seemed that every time
he came to the building to follow Yi Ling's progress, a new change
had been made. He had felt resistance towards more or less telling
the technician that he did not know who Yi was.
The
money spent on the academy could have treated the wear and tear of
the drab Old Headquarters Building. It had been a long time since the
building had been renovated. Pictures of past presidents, autographed
and inscribed with notes such as Thanks to all of the employees of
the CIA, hung on
the peeling walls. The gratitude was not reflected by the
government's current financial strategies. The rationale seemed to be
that less funding meant prioritising. The CIA had chosen to
prioritise its next generation of agents.
Jack
scanned the young faces lining the shooting range until his eyes
locked on Yi. The barrel of a standard issue twelve gauge shotgun was
perched on her shoulder. He stared at the target flapping and
whizzing towards her. The target – a paper silhouette of a man's
upper body and head - was one of many that she had decapitated in a
rapid succession. If she had done as well with the 9mm and .38
revolver, she had aced the pre-mission weapons test. Of course she
had.
The
smell of cordite filled Jack's nostrils as two fervent academy clones
walked past him, chatting enthusiastically about the weapons they had
fired. One of them had a beard. It suggested life experience, but
beard had never been shot at, not knowing whether the air he was
sucking in would constitute his last breath. Jack sighed and blinked
hard. He was good at making himself feel old. Jack flicked the
lighter one last time and smiled ruefully as he watched guns being
fired by uninitiated hands.
4