Double Agent

○ three ○

| Ezra |

Chagrin has his hands folded as he lectures me behind his impeccably clean black desk. Dressed in a suit, he looks every bit the head of Secret Intelligence. It's too bad I've heard this before. I zone out almost immediately.

Twenty-four hours ago...

Chagrin calls me into his office. I sling my suit over the rack and unbutton the first two buttons of my dress shirt. He sighs as I sit down on his fancy chair, in his fancy office. Everything is either white or black. His curtains cover the windows, no doubt someone comes in and irons them every day. Dressed in a suit pressed to perfection, he snaps the file in front of him close and spins it around to face me.

I lean back and raise my eyebrows.

"It'll interest you."

My teeth grind against each other as I read the report. Chagrin knows I've wanted this job for a long time. I don't even bother reading the whole file. I know enough about them.

"Why now?"

"There's been some activity."

"How long have you known this?"

"A week."

"You're shitting my dick."

"I knew you'd be impulsive and infiltrate immediately. They're out for the weekend. You can go in. Stealth, as usual."

I get up, nodding my head to him as I sling my coat over my shoulder.

"Ford."

I turn back.

"Take Dupont."

"Fuck no, not again."

"He has the details, and the tech backup."

"He's annoying."

"It's an order," he looks at me meaningfully.

I sigh and walk out, making my way through the pristine glass and luxury of the building until I reach the massive doors of the artillery. I place my eye against the scanner as a blue light runs over my retina.

"Welcome, Agent Ford," a motorised voice speaks up.

A faint clicking is heard and the steel doors of the weapons arsenal open up slowly. I walk into the black room, backlit with white LEDs. On the black counter in the center of the room, all manner of SMGs and handguns are laid out beside labels stating distance, power, reload speed and magazine capacity. On the walls on either two sides of the room hang LMGs, shotguns and assault rifles. The last wall holds simple weapons, knives, melees, stunt grenades.

I roll the sleeves of my shirt up my arms, picking a simple handgun up. Three perfect shots go into the bullseye of the target at the corner of the room. I refill the magazine and pocket it.

The selection of weapons here is satisfactory, but not good enough. I approach the corner of a wall and let the security pad scan my thumbprint. It flashes green, and the corner of the wall moves backwards, leaving a little room that acts as a platform. It moves downwards as soon as I step on it.

I end up in a bright, shiny, gold room. The elite weapons. Only agents of top rank are allowed here because the weapons are highly classified and extremely dangerous. I grab a couple of foldable guns and tuck those into the pockets of my jacket. A pen that dispenses cyanide makes its home in a pocket. A knife that injects truth serum gets tucked into my boot. An infrared pointer that can cause a fire. A diamond scalpel that can cut glass.

As I leave the room, I run my tongue over my teeth, flipping the pistol over and over again in my hand, certain that nothing was going to ruin this mission for me.