Today I’m participating in Rachelle O’Neil‘s Flash Fiction Challenge. In this challenge, participants are paired to receive a prompt from a participant, and give a prompt to another. I gave a prompt to Leined, and received this dialogue prompt from (my sister) Caiti Marie.
“One chance. You know that, right? You have one chance.”
Since I have a certain love for secret agent stories, I decided to write about that. My flash fiction ended up at exactly 1000 words, by Word’s counter. I’d love to hear what you think of it!
Edit: WordPress seems to have eaten my formatting… I’m sorry about that. It should be fixed now.
Dusk covered the landscape of Western Europe. The last rays of a dying sun cast light upon Henry’s face, illuminating his fingers as he stirred sugar cubes into two cups of tea.
Odd little things. Hardy big enough to take two drinks from, he mused, but kept his commentary silent. Anderson, though he didn’t look like an overly sentimental man, was imperative to the operation. It would be best to avoid antagonizing him—or his country’s teacups.
They only had one chance.
“Of course, you have the codes,” Anderson murmured, voice deep even when quiet.
Henry smiled. “Of course.”
The sun slipped behind the horizon. Henry struck a match and lit two candles in one fluid motion. “You have your authorization?”
Anderson face remained still; no smirk, no frown, no expression. Those types always made Henry edgy.
“Are Americans so idiotic as to think I would come without them?”
Henry extinguished the match and pushed a teacup across the table to Anderson. No comment.
Anderson glanced at Henry before politely reaching for the tea, and drank nothing. Henry waited.
After briefly pushing his hand into his pocket, Anderson lay several papers on the table.
A breeze from the open window rustled the papers. Henry lay a hand over the pages to steady them, glancing through them with a disinterested face that belied the nerves that fluttered in his stomach.
The open window felt like more than a breach of security, but in an abandoned hotel near a humid river in summer, the building simply became too stuffy to put up with—especially when meeting an agent you hoped to keep on good terms.
Hoped. Henry silently scoffed at the casual word. Desperately needed came closer to the truth.
This mission would be his most important—the agency’s most important. He couldn’t risk failure. Other agents patrolled the building, and no electronics would work within a mile, but there were a million and one things a person could do without electricity.
Example, fire a gun.
After glancing through the documents, Henry looked up. “Verbal identification.”
Anderson rattled it off flawlessly. Though Henry didn’t smile, he mentally praised the work of the Linguistics. Nothing quite like a barely pronounceable sound for a password—no amount of torture or leak would have enough coaching to reproduce that.
Navajo code talkers all over again. They needed the security just as much.
A case in his pocket, apparently a metal mint box, used a fingerprint to unlock as Henry opened it. Sliding the papers out, he handed them over to Anderson.
For the first time, Henry’s contact smiled, and Henry allowed himself a small relieved breath, though he didn’t relax. It had gone well so far, but this was too important to slip up half way through.
“And the other part?”
Henry rose, both teas untouched, and nodded toward the door. “This way.”
Dust crowded the halls, mold gathering where the dinghy carpet met stained walls. Anderson wordlessly followed as Henry walked through three halls and two staircases. They stepped into the lobby at the bottom.
Broken glass doors opened outside, and long-dead elevators stood to the right.
Henry scanned the room, then glanced to Anderson. “This way.”
“Pardon me,” a French accent said from the direction of the elevator.
Mouth going dry, Henry half-turned. His right hand moved automatically toward his gun. This couldn’t go wrong—not when they were so close.
This building was supposed to be secured.
“No, no,” the man standing before the elevator said. “Don’t trouble yourselves for your weapons, please.”
Clad in black to blend in with the night, with red hair poking out from under the hat, the young man held himself with confidence—down to the cocked automatic in his left hand.
While Anderson swore, Henry smiled. His every instinct focused on the mission, leaving emotions behind. “Hello again, Percy. Or is it Benedict this time?”
How he had gotten past the other agents, Henry didn’t know—he hoped they were all right.
“Neither, this time.” He inclined his head slightly toward Anderson. “But I would like the codes, if you please.”
While the gun seemed relaxed in his hand, Henry knew he could shoot both before either managed to draw.
“Oh, well. Frenchie wants the codes, Anderson.”
“Drop them on the floor, please,” Frenchie politely requested.
Again swearing under his breath, Anderson tossed them.
Gun still trained on Henry and Anderson, Frenchie bent and picked up the papers. “Pleasure,” said he, and walked backwards to the window. Neatly, he slid through the open glass.
Henry was calling for back-up and running toward the window before they heard him hit the ground. Sliding out his gun, he strained his eyes to see.
Clearly, once again, they had a leak. What a joy to work with Intelligence.
It took Drake three seconds to reach the river and launch into the boat.
“Got both,” he told Frederick, dropping the French accent. Automatically, he reverted to his Irish brogue as Frederick powered up the gasoline engine. Their first priority now was speed.
They roared out of there.
By the time they were five miles away, Drake had every code memorized, the papers in ashes on the boat floor, the object in his pocket.
Within minutes, Fred pulled the boat into the harbor and, as they scanned the skies for choppers, both dashed toward the waiting car.
Ten minutes of a lightless car drive later, Fred was dropping him off at a waiting vehicle.
“One chance. You know that, right? You’ve got one chance.”
Drake pushed the door open. “I know.”
Fred almost smiled. “Blow the operation open.”
Drake smiled and temporarily reverted back to his French accent. “As an agent,” he said, “it’s in the pride.”
Stepping out of the car, he paused, dropping the accent. “As a human, I’m not considering the consequences for failure.”
He closed the door as silently as possible, and Fred pulled away. Running the codes through his mind, Drake smiled grimly.