The (Short) Story of the Evil Umbrellas [Completed]

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Cold Earl Grey, too much milk. Lemon square with a metallic twang. Knees carefully not brushing under the table, no matter how much she - not touching.

Polite smiles, mirthless laughter, talk about the weather, splitting the tab.

Hell. The entire lunch had been hell.

Hell with a side of just friends, don't want to lose you, love but not in love. Empty words; melancholy but not as pretty.

But really, it's for the best. She couldn't afford connections, and at least this way he would get closure. Not just a dead employee and a suddenly disappeared girlfriend.

And the about-to-be dead employee is what she should be focusing on now. It wouldn't do to get all the way to kill shot and then mess it up because she was thinking too much about some guy. Her handler wouldn't be pleased with that at all.

Still, it isn't exactly a situation that inspired clarity of mind and lack of distractions. It'd gotten messy when she'd found herself just a little too close (which, might be an understatement) with the head of the company. On paper, it would be very cute - the secretary and the boss.

Except for the fact that the secretary is a highly skilled assassin (they liked to say "agent") and the boss is in charge of a company where someone was skimming parts and selling them to terrorists.

58 people dead in the last attack those parts was used in.

The physical circumstances aren't any more conducive to complete concentration. The apartment she's in is dusty enough that her childhood asthma seems to be intent on making a comeback. The only place to sit with access to the window involves leaning against the foot of the bed, her legs tumbling out in front of her.

It isn't even the equipment she'd normally use for this job, it's too small and inaccurate, increases the probability of failure. But they insisted that she should use it, that her job was not to provide cover but to come down and provide reinforcements if anything went wrong.

Not a kill shot was the exact wording, but it's hard to break old habits.

It's ten minutes to twelve, Roberto is already waiting and the inside man should show up any moment. It's an overly elaborate sting operation, really, much too careful. But they had needed to get this one right.

There are whispers, chatter from some friends in Washington. They say the division is going to be shut down if they don't start hearing some good news. This is her last chance, if she loses out on this she didn't know where she's going to go.

Her com flares to life, two taps from the other side. Roberto checking in, his super-special code for all good? Without even thinking about it she taps back three times. I'm fine.

He's been worried about her lately. Not that he knows that this might be their last op together, he always leaves the business to her, but because he knows her better than anyone and she hasn't exactly been discrete about her interest in her "boss".

Maybe it should worry her, that suddenly Roberto knows her better than anyone, but whatever's there will need to wait for another day. Wait for a day when she doesn't see Jeremy's face flash against her eyelids every time she blinks.

An engine roars outside, tires squelching against the pavement. She stays seated, waits. It wouldn't do for him to spot her at the window, it might spook him enough that he'll just drive away.

She doesn't hear the car stop or the door pop open, but the silence must mean that they're talking right now. All we need is a handshake, then we're good to go.

It stretches out. Her phone is being opened every few seconds now, counting the time. One minute, two minutes, three minutes. It shouldn't be taking this long - Roberto's a pro, he should have had this deal wrapped up in thirty seconds, max.

She taps her com twice. No response. She taps it again. Nothing. She pauses for a second, thinks about risking a look out the window, when her com flares to life with four hits.

Help.

Yelling comes from outside. Shooting to her feet, she glances out the window - but she doesn't dare spare more than one look. She needs to get there quickly, and there's already too much movement below for her to make out anything or anyone clearly. Two people - one with a gun out - is all that really registers.

In less than a minute she's at the back door, slowly easing it open with her gun cocked and her breathing stopped.

It's a man, tall and blond. He's pulled his gun on Roberto, the metal flashing entirely too close to Roberto's temple for her to be comfortable.

The madman must hear her leave the building, because he whips around, and she can finally see his face and -

Oh, Jeremy. Not you.

He's ranting, gesturing like a mad man. Telling some sweet lie about why he did it, something that makes greed sound more sympathetic.

He doesn't look like the man that she'd fallen in love with. Doesn't sound like it either. His voice is cracked, his face twisted like corkscrew. His hands are bleeding - and she has no clue if they're chapped from the cold or broken from fighting.

But he's smiling, at her. Cold, smirkish smile, like he's just gotten away with everything.

58 people are dead, and he's smiling. Smiling like he doesn't think that she'll shoot, like he thinks that she'll let him go.

It takes  two seconds to aim her gun, less than one to pull the trigger.  Five seconds for Roberto to reach her, pulling her against his chest.

Over Roberto's shoulder she can see the brains leaking onto the pavement. She almost feels satisfaction.

Satisfaction; but not as pretty.