Spy

By
Geoffrey Zimmerman

He rose early this morning. The mist before his face carried the scent of impending doom.”What if the plan doesn’t succeed?”, he pondered. Teeth. Breakfast. Coffee. Smokes. Teeth again, and he was off, over the balcony. Ten feet down. An hour and a half later he was at the wooded clearing he had so carefully chosen one week before. “Why did I brush my teeth?”, he thought. He waited. Bad to be early. The cold air bit at his nose. He waited. No way to turn back now. The wheels had already begun turning. Quicker than he thought they would.

He smoked. Wary of his cigarette supply. Low. High noon.

He began to move again. Due East. “Was the compass correct?” No time for thoughts like that. A stream. Was he lost? “This was not on the map”, he whined to himself. A slippery rock almost spelled failure for the plan. No such luck. He was agile. Hurrying now. Branches made desperate tries at blinding him.

No such luck.

He was finally at the grove. Five before three. Early.

He waited. The pine trees were thick. Pungent. Good cover. The ground was cold. Very cold. The depot was in plain sight, as planned. A train whistle shreaked. On time. He loaded. Carefully placing the bullets into the clip with a snap. No way to turn back now. The silencer secure.

The whistle blew once again.

The train was huge. Black. The ground thundered. Thoughts.

His friend, Joe, once happy. Dead. Vengeance. His mother. Worried. Always worried. The map. The” plan. His orders. The cross hairs were thin. The train stopped. The target stepped off alone. As planned. In sight. His right shoulder braced the kick. The target fell. The gun left behind. He ran. Way too visible for comfort. Unfolding the tarp. Covered the target. Grabbed the papers. A quick look. All in order. Onto the train. Don’t forget the dialect. He knew the seat. Second to last. Window. The train pulled out. A large lump under a black tarp. Garbage perhaps. No way to trace, anyways. His face was blown off. The plan had worked. For now.