Challenge The Proud

Side Job

"But instead of a gun he pulled out a loaf of bread." Challenge No.7

I ARRIVED at the hotel an hour early, and checked inside room 321. It was a cozy space, with a double bed, and a plentiful mini-bar. But as much as I would have liked a drink, that was not the time to relax. I stood by the window, holding the drapes only slightly parted so that I would remain hidden, but also be able to keep an eye on the small round park area across the street from the hotel. People called it The Park of Roses - probably because of the many rose bushes in that park. I could see none. It was a cold and gloomy February day and the roses slept hidden under the cover of snow.

No suspicious activity in the park - only old people, dog walkers, and the usual hungry pigeons. After twenty minutes or so, my contact with the Agency, Mr. Nestor, entered the park. He fitted right into the landscape, with his dark gray, long overcoat, matching bowler hat, and a cane with an ivory handle.

I knew not to underestimate the old, frail-looking guy. Until he had retired to a desk, Nestor had been the Agency's top agent for many years. But there were constant rumors surrounding the great Andrew Nestor. They said that he was still performing side jobs - the sort of side jobs that the Agency, to cover their own asses, would deny even existed - cleaning up their shit before any other government agency could get a whiff of it.

From now on, he was supposed to be my handler, and I didn't like it. Why the sudden change? Why had the Agency picked one of the most ruthless, skilled, and efficient former field agents to keep me in check?

I needed a smoke.

Opening a small bag of peanuts, I crunched the small snacks while my eyes never left Nestor.

The situation required careful assessment.

I had been stationed in Germany until about four weeks ago, Agent Katrina... No, no room for error - I needed to be thorough and exact in my assessment. I had been operating in Berlin for the past five years, when 26 days ago, Agent Katrina Smoke had come to ask for assistance in her mission. The Agency had given the go ahead for us to join up. I had helped her steal a flash drive from a Russian Embassy employee suspected of aiding terrorists, but the mission hadn't entirely been a success.

Katrina Smoke had died, I had survived. My guess was that the Agency wanted to know exactly why I made it out alive and she didn't. They probably hadn't been too satisfied with my debriefing. That was the reason they had called me closer to home, smack-dab in the middle of New York, and placed me under Mr. Nestor's tender and attentive care. I wasn't to be trusted. There was no other explanation.

Fine by me. I had learned not to trust the Agency years ago, and I knew exactly how to watch my back. That was why I had arrived an hour early, went up to the room I booked in advance under an alias which the Agency had no idea existed. And that was why I was keeping an eye on the park and the surrounding area. No signs of shooters, spotters or grab teams. There was only Nestor sitting on a bench, waiting patiently, and probably freezing to death in that awful weather.

With a pat on my pocket I checked to see if my gun was there, as if I hadn't done that already only ten minutes before.

I left the hotel room, and walked casually through The Park of Roses, right up to the bench where Nestor was sat. I joined him and expected the old guy to be the first to speak, if only just to scold me for being five minutes late.

But he didn't say anything. I didn't say anything either. His hands were covered in black leather gloves, and he was holding a few pieces of bread, throwing crumbs in the direction of pigeons, with the air of a man that was doing something important.

"Why am I here?" I finally asked.

"You're here because I told you to come here," Nestor answered with a smirk, and then stared at me as if he was appraising my worth as an agent, and maybe that was exactly what he was doing since he went on to say, "Agent Stan Lark. You don't look like much."

I knew I didn't look like it, but I was proficient in weapons and body combat. My skinny and short physique deceived adversaries before the battle even started and so, I always had the element of surprise on my side.

"You're here to compare dick sizes or give me my next assignment?" I tried to deny my anxiety and take control of the conversation.

It felt like the battle between me and Nestor had already begun and that, he was the one who had the element of surprise on his side.

"I've got your assignment," my new handler muttered, and reached into his pocket.

The old guy could see right through me.

I was his side job! The great Andrew Nestor was there to shoot me!

But instead of a gun, he pulled out a loaf of bread, and resumed feeding the pigeons.

My piece was out and pointing from under my arm at Nestor's torso. Had he noticed it?

"We've retrieved new intel from that flash drive - there's a flight to Russia this evening and you're gonna be on it," revealed Nestor.

Leaning back to mask my gesture, I slowly put the gun away, into my coat's pocket.

"Russia, eh? I've always wanted to see it this time of year," I uttered with a nod, and that was when I knew that Nestor was clueless.

The Agency had bought my story and no one, not even the great Nestor, suspected me. They had no idea that I had killed Katrina Smoke.

But I had been only a second away from shooting Nestor. No way I would have gotten away with that.

At the airport I bought myself a pack of cigarettes. I hadn't had a cigarette in ten years.

Being a double agent was really stressful.

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