Agent Ordinary

Age Before Sunshine

Nuevo Laredo, Mexico

Gray-haired Thomas Ordinary crouched in the hallway, listening. Faded blood splatters smeared the tan corridor like somebody had tried to wipe it off and then given up. Fingernail gouges marred the texture on both sides. At least his mark was older than he was. The Nobel Prize winner was being targeted for some sort of biological weapon he'd kept under lock and key for the last thirty years. Somebody leaked the info from an old Agency file and now Mr. P. Morra was a hot commodity with a recurring heart problem.

Thomas eased a ladies' compact mirror around the corner. The lady from the hotel bar had left it behind and he'd decided to put it to good use. The movement stirred a whiff of jasmine and an onslaught of rounded, curved images with it. Hell, she was beautiful: dark, flowing hair, red dress that hugged every blessed inch of her. Thank god for the whiskey and his Armani suit. She'd run her manicured fingers up and down his arm, until his pulse thundered in his eardrums and there wasn't anything in the room but her. When she'd asked him up to her room, he'd nearly knocked the drinks aside and thrown her down right there. The subsequent elevator ride was the longest he'd ever endured.

They'd spent hours wrapped around each other. It'd been fantastic right up until he barely made it out of the bed this morning. Every cursed muscle screamed his age.

Thomas rolled his shoulders. The alabaster doctor's smock didn't fit so well over his dress shirt, and the reek of bleach almost made his eyes water. With no movement down the passageway, he risked a few more inches of his arm, and then scowled into the mirror, squinting as he moved his head forward and backward.

Damn. He'd forgotten his glasses again.

Thomas scrunched his eyes. It'd have to do. Chicken necking while he hid in a drug-funded hospital hallway behind enemy lines didn't really match the plan.

"Okay in there, Grandpa?" The youthful squeaks grated against Thomas' eardrum. "Remember, we need this guy. Don't shoot him."

He'd forgotten about the yellow-haired baby agent. Agency standards were getting lax if that gumshoe got one foot past the front door. He didn't like him. It wasn't the first time he'd had to put up with a handler he didn't care for, but that over-eager-in-front-of-the-bosses bit gave him the heebie-jeebies.

Under his breath, Thomas muttered, "They dragged me out of my coffin because your bosses knew you couldn't pull this off, Sunshine." He paused. "Seen anyone leave?"

"None reported."

"Going in." He stood, straightened his bright red bow tie, and eased his pistol from the black leather holster. This Peace Prize winner better be worth it.

Sunshine retorted, "Just don't lose that hearing aid, m-kay? My department spent a lot on that thing."

That rankled. They'd had to buy a special one for him – a receiver / mic / hearing aid combo job. He was going deaf and blind. Why'd they drag him out of retirement? Surely there were better suited agents.

Thomas eased down the hallway, green paper surgical booties obscuring the cap-toed oxfords, but the attendants' desk was empty. Two desk chairs leaned against each other, the only sentries, warped from use and time. It looked like they'd all cleared out in a hurry.

Thomas ducked behind the attendants' desk. No footsteps followed. A fan made another pass and a stack of pages caught his attention. He eased them down from the desk and scanned the top page.

Angry marks of black ink read, "Pablo Morra – DECEASED."

Well, this threw a wrench in the plan to rescue the geriatric chemist. Thomas said, "Sunshine, we have a problem." He tossed the harbinger back to the tabletop. "Our man is dead."

Sunshine cursed in unintelligible mouse-speak. Thomas yanked the earpiece from his ear as the fan fluttered the reports he'd just discarded.

Tucked inside the file, Thomas noticed a splash of color.

He retrieved the charts and lifted the top two pages. Full color photographs of garden amenities, complete with a spa to rejuvenate any tired soul, filled the brochure that had been tucked in with the paperwork. The captions invited him to seek peace and tranquility at "Harmony: A Meditation Retreat."

In thick black ink, the words "Transfer Immediately," glared up at Thomas. The handwriting matched the penmanship from the first page. He closed the folder and stuffed it in the waistband of his trousers. This was need-to-know info that nobody else needed to know.

Maybe the trail hadn't gone cold after all.