Agent Ordinary

Between

Culebra Island, Puerto Rico

Thomas parked his car in a spot in front of Bungalow 5, behind a white compact, both his windows down slightly. Somebody was here. He could hear faint strains of Frank Sinatra through the screens. For a dead man, Mr. P. Morra had good taste in music.

Thomas grabbed the earpiece from the glove compartment where the Agency had stashed it and tucked it back into place. Sunshine was muttering to himself.

"Hello, Sunshine," Thomas drawled.

Thomas enjoyed three seconds of silence before enduring the onslaught. "I won't help you. Not at all. How dare you... you... you... do that to me." Sunshine needed to toughen it up to make it in this business.

"I did not require your help with check in. In fact, I discovered that our P. Morra is staying in Bungalow 5." Thomas stepped out of the low car. He tucked one hand in his pocket, deposited the earpiece, and checked for the poison pen and homing beacon. Good to go.

Thomas rapped on the glossy mahogany door. Frankie boy crooned on in the background. Maybe P. Morra had company. Thomas glanced behind him. He hoped he was still amorous at that age. The grounds were emptied of people. He drew the Glock as he wrapped his hand around the door handle and eased it to the right.

Unlocked.

He inched the door open and slipped inside. The click of the latch was soft behind him.