Rogue Agent

Chapter Seven

November 13, 1969. My objection was to assassinate an American named James Rogers. I was on the Staten Island Ferry, trying not to catch anyone's attention. I kept an eye on my watch, It was around 8 in the morning and the ferry didn't have too many people on it. The occasional homeless person and a few tourists.

I hummed softly to a soft tune, a melody I couldn't quite remember. Occasional remembered words would serve as lyrics. You say yes... mmmm... You say stop, mmmm... You say goodbye... and I say go go go... I wasn't allowed to sing through most of my training at the Red Room. Not that I was ever big on singing. Well, who knows what I was like before the Red Room. Maybe I wanted to be on Broadway. I smiled a little at that unrealistic thought.

The Statue of Liberty stood tall, looking over Manhattan, though up close and compared to the growing skyscrapers of New York it didn't seem so big. We passed it, and the few tourists that groveled at its base looked like ants. But I reminded myself- I wasn't American. I wasn't Russian, either, though I knew the language and many of its people inside and out. I was British, and even now I retained the accent (partially as my cover). I had no right to call Lady Liberty my own, though somewhere, deep down, I wanted to. I sighed and pushed my one red-dyed curl of hair behind my ear.

I spent the majority of the voyage lost in my own thoughts and strategic planning. Target was fifteen years old and lived in a one-story house. Two parents, one worked and the other seemed to stay at home all the time, which could make things difficult. I'd have to figure out where his room was, break-in from there, kill him, and flee. Perhaps I could use a larger gun, shoot him dead from the street. I had a great shot, after all. But I settled on going in and using a close-range pistol- one I had in my bag. Better to be sure that the job's done, double-tap. It was too late for a decision to use a different gun anyway.

The ferry came to a stop, and I navigated the streets with ease. There was an oddly familiar feel to the streets as I strolled around them. I looked for a very certain house, one I'd seen photographs of. There was a weird feeling of deja vu as I parked my bike right outside of the backyard and scaled the fence, before landing on my two feet inside the backyard. It was grass, with a little porch area with a barbecue and seating. I avoided the glass patio door and found my way to the side of the house.

The owner of the windowed bedroom was all too obvious. Pictures of beautiful actresses seemed to cover his wall, with occasional record posters. And there sat a young brunette boy at a desk, reading a "sports" magazine. He was very muscular- the shirt he wore flattered him very well in that way. I couldn't see his face, but from his body, I could tell that he was probably one of the most agreeable kids at his school. I shouldn't break the glass, not with him here like this...

I had to find a different plan. I sat down in the little grassy area below his window and thought things out. I could go through the front door. I was pretty enough to where I could seduce him. If that "sports" magazine was what I thought it was, he wouldn't be able to resist. Then I could kiss him, and mid-kiss plunge a pocket knife into his back. Or look like I was running my fingers through his hair and snap his neck. I liked the second one. So I approached the front door and rang the doorbell.

It was the boy who answered. I had guessed right, he had a handsome face. And even better were his eyes, such an engrossing color- similar to mine, which were almost a mix of brown and blue yet so... brilliant, more like a hazel that was on the blue side, if that was possible.

"Can I help you?" The boy said, in a very pleasant voice. He had such a smooth, sweet-sounding American accent. He raised an eyebrow, looking me up and down.

"I'm looking for a Mr. James Rogers?" I said, using my natural British accent instead of a Southern accent (which my training suggested was best to charm boys, but why wouldn't a boy like my British accent?) He sighed.