Dismissed ⤯ Tom Holland

1 | Mission Report

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"I suppose you're wondering why I've called you here."

Of course I was wondering that.

I sat inside my boss's office, watching him tap his pen against his desk repeatedly. The lights flickered above my head, dimly illuminating the grey room. Working for the British Investigation Corporation was a get-and-go operation; you get your mission assigned, and you complete it.

This was the first time I had been directly asked to come into the office.

"I took a look through your mission report," the man said, slapping a red folder on the desk, "twenty-four operations, in just 3 weeks. All completed, might I add."

He sat down slowly in his creaky, worn out chair, flipping through the packed file. It smelled like old coffee in the room, and the quiet buzz of the ceiling fan echoed through the back of my head.

"Is there a reason I was called here, sir?" I asked stiffly, my lips pursed into a straight line.

If there was anything I learned from my 5 year training operative at Sterling Academy, it was to always keep a straight face when talking to anyone. It didn't matter who, because the slightest hint of emotion could completely change a conversation.

"I understand you've only been assigned Active Measure projects," he continued, "but due to your recent improvement over the past few months, we would like to send you out on something different."

"What's the offer?"

"Were you aware that something was stolen from our facility a few nights ago?"

"No sir, I was not."

"Good," he said, tossing his pen off to the side, "we want to keep what happened on a low profile. Do you recognize this?"

He pushed a thin slip of paper towards me, the sound of the sheet rubbing against the metal desk peaking my interest. It was a police report of the stolen object, a black and white photo printed on the top left corner. It was of a silver locket, with the engraving of Claude of France, an ex-queen, embossed onto the front.

"The Larmes de Claude," I said without hesitation, "it was stolen?"

"You know, it's not everyday someone breaks into the BIC and steals a priceless artifact," he emphasized, "a scandal like this could remove our government funding."

"What do I need to do?"

"We tracked the thief to a school in Edinburgh. It's a private college, Francis Academy for the Gifted. We need you to find whoever stole the pendant, bring them in, and retrieve the artifact without creating suspicion."

"Of course, sir."

"If word gets out, you will be out of a job, and so will this organization."

"My lips are sealed," I promised, "I'll make sure it's a quick job."

"Wonderful," he said, pulling open a drawer in his desk, "you start tomorrow morning, a car will be outside of your apartment to pick you up."

He picked up a crisp booklet out of the compartment, and held it out for me to take. It was a UK passport, the navy blue leather glinting off of the fluorescent lighting. I flipped through the blank pages, before I stopped at the identification page. A blurry picture of me was printed neatly on the corner, and a list of false information was printed underneath it.

"Eliza Williams," he announced, "you'll be using that name until we get the locket back."

"Affirmative."

"Everything you need to know about the case will be given to you at the security desk. You may go."

"Thank you for this opportunity, sir."

"If you manage to complete this assignment," he noted, as I made my way towards the door, "I'll consider promoting you."

"Trust me, I'll be back in no time."

"That's what I like to hear, Agent 47, that's what I like to hear."