Sometimes I Write Things

Perfect Timing

Hans walked down the center of the road with perfect posture and even stride. A threat of bombing left no fear of cars to strike him. There were people all up and down the streets, rushing about in disorganized chaos, but that, too, was planned. He tried not to let his eyes catch the suspicious gaze of the capital police as they attempted to control the panic. A small smirk spread across his stoic face. All was going far too well.

A stiff wind blew down the famous avenue and struck him with its terrible cold, blowing back the tails of his long woolen coat. It had been the kind of blustering winter which pierced to the core of a man without even the slightest regard for his dress, and he couldn't help but feel that even the weather was against his quest. Still, he persisted with his head down against the winds, his gloved hand gripping the firm handle of the leather briefcase tighter as he raised his eyes and fixed them on the government building just a little further down the road.

One of the panicked civilians ran carelessly in front of him, nearly knocking him to the ground with the force of the awkward collision, and his heart stopped for a moment as a jolt of shock ran through him. Hans froze, his body becoming unnaturally rigid, and he breathed deeply, his breath returning to the air with wispy white puffs. He glanced down at the leather briefcase, unnerved. That was close, much too dreadfully close.

Recollecting himself again, he walked, this time with sweat dripping from his brow, his courage somewhat frayed, and he prayed for God's blessing on his bloody work.

Suddenly, a voice came from behind him, its melodic tones and stubborn kindness falling like a crying tragedy on his freezing ears. His heart skipped a beat when he heard it, and his brown eyes grew wide with horror. He looked up to the sky and sighed. Why? Why would this happen?

He spun promptly on his heels, and the flats of his boots smacked furiously against the concrete ground as he turned to face the blithe young woman who called him. He looked with disapproval on her in all her slender elegance as she stood opposing him with rosy cheeks and porcelain skin chapped from cold, her curled hair like finely spun gold. Normally, her bright eyes delighted him, but he couldn't be happy to see her now.

"Crystal, what the Hell are you doing here?" her husband demanded with tears in his eyes. His breathing was ragged and his heart pounded violently in his chest as though it might somehow escape it. "You shouldn't be out, especially here!"

"You did this, didn't you?" she asked him softly, taking a long step towards him as she pulled closed the fur coat he had bought her the Christmas before this all started. "You and your... friends from work?"

He paused, studying his wife through the clear lenses of his small, circular glasses. His temperature rose with his distress. He stopped to wipe the sweat from his brow and clutched the briefcase tighter.

"You know we can't discuss that here," he warned in little more than a whisper.

"Then, why not go somewhere we can?" she asked, meeting his pointed gaze with an equally determined one of her own.

"I am on a timeline," he passively informed her, subtly drawing her attention to the briefcase in his hand. He could almost hear the ticking of the mechanism in his mind, and he could hardly wait to activate it.

"It won't take long," she told him.

Hans checked his watch. He still had time.

"Where, then?" he asked her.

Crystal's blue eyes shifted to the side of the road, catching the light as they did. By this time, the crowds had begun to disperse. "That alley there," she suggested, noting a secluded place between buildings free from police presence.

Hans nodded. "Very well," he said, glancing again at his watch. "But I haven't got much time."