5

Cigarettes after sex is the norm, but of course, her vices have to get her high. We went for a few hours. The sun will come up soon. I've tugged underwear on but don't bother with the rest. I still have time.

She's staring at the moon again. I wrap my arms around her waist and watch the night sky with her. The scent of me and smoke, come off her skin. I like the mixture.

"You always come here. Almost every night. Don't you have things to do?" She asks. Scarlet wiggles out of grasp, ambling toward the kitchen, lit blunt in her mouth.

I watch her in the dim light of the fridge. She retrieves a bottle of water. She guzzles half, closing it.

"Can I?" I ask.

Scarlet shrugs, and tosses me the water bottle. I taste her lips when I drink from it.

"How long do you intend to do this? Fool around, I mean," she asks, disappearing into her bedroom.

"Until I'm full. And you?"

She peeks out of the bedroom. "Until I have something else."

"So heartless," I put my hand to my chest.

I open my mouth, but my next sentence is cut off by the ring of a phone. Mine.

My eyes widen. I rush to nightstand, and pick it up. A surprise call. Since when do I get surprise calls? And two in one day? My skin crawls.

I answer, looking back at Scarlets door. "I've got to take this call, I'll be right back."

"Don't be," she calls from the bedroom.

I scoff and shake my head. "Noble, what the hell do you want? I'm busy."

"Orders. Check your email."

"I'm not at home I can't—"

"Check. Your. Email."

The line clicks. He always hangs up without even a goodbye. Pompous asshole.

I sigh, and look away. The sun won't be up for a few minutes. My phone chimes.

I don't have a few minutes. I enter into the house, and find her on the couch.

"I've gotta head out. Family emergency."

"The wife?" She asks, uninterested her eyes on the tv.

"Ex-wife. And no. She doesn't call me unless there's money missing."

She chuckles. "Sounds like my kinda girl."

I shake my head, and throw on the rest of my clothes. I rush home, damn near breaking my phone. It sounds like my assignment is about to get interesting.

I shove into my door, shutting it behind me quickly. Then I open my laptop. The hologram roars to life. A new dossier. I thought I was only on recon?

I run my eyes over the text.

New target.

I run over the profile. Hm. I thought I missed adventure, but the unsettled feeling in my gut tells me I have gotten comfortable.

You should never get comfortable. It's in the handbook.

I won't catch my target tonight, anyway. He's not that kind of perp. I start my 9-5, start coding furiously. I could leave it up to the lackeys, but is that how a good spy behaves?

You have to get your hands dirty. In fact, you never wash them. You're never clean.

I rest my head, and close my eyes for a moment. It's something akin to sleep, but not quite. None of the relaxation. The peace.

When the morning comes, I set out on the mission. The light of day is no place for the man I am, but Dawson needs to see the sun.

I head to a coffee shop by the edge of the city, get myself a cup. Then I savor it. Enjoy it. Not great. I mean I've had real Colombian coffee...this is piss in comparison. Cheap and burnt.

The only cover I have is the civilians—which is perfectly fine for me. The cool metal of my gun pressed against my spine.

It's my last resort. A spy likes to get his hands dirty.

I blend into the background. I'm clad in a beanie, and a somewhat torn clothes—in a 'cool' way. I look no different from every other hipster asshole who spends his time in a coffee shop—like an unemployed stoner using the WiFi.

The doorbell jingles. I don't look up from my coffee, but I can tell by the footsteps. He's my guy. He orders a large coffee, no sugar, no cream. He's quiet while he does it.

You'd never suspect how many agents he's killed with that soft spoken voice. But then again, a smile will get you almost anywhere.

He goes to the bathroom before his order was ready. If this were my younger years, I'd have followed him, and banged his head against every hard surface in that bathroom.

The porcelain sink, the wall, the floor, the stalls, the urinals—everything until there was nothing but an empty, fractured skull.

But I'm not younger. So I watch him return to his seat. I watch him drink his coffee. He doesn't look up. He doesn't notice me.

He thinks he's safe.

He's forgotten rule number one: never let your guard down.

He finished his shitty coffee and smiles at the barista as he leaves, I get up, and throw my coffee away, turning my head down so the camera don't catch my face.

I have on fake tattoos for this very reason—just in case.

He's walking now, me trailing behind him. I blend into the crowded streets, full of hipsters. This part of the city was gentrified.

It's a plus for me. He stops suddenly, and for a moment, I think I'm caught. He glanced around and keeps walking.

Idiot. If you feel you're being watched—you are. He's rusty. Even better for me. I follow him all the way till he gets to a convenient stopping point.

I throw a smart phone down near him. It cracks. I pick it up, and follow him.

"Sir! Sir, I think you dropped this!"

I hand it to him with a smile. He looks at me, at the phone. "I could've sworn—"

I grin, and slip the needle into his skin as I put the phone in his hand. "That's alright. We all make mistakes, don't we Charles?"

His eyes widen, I watch fear fill them. "They sent you?"

"They sent me," I whisper. "You know too much. And you're clearly...out of shape. It's time to put you out to pasture,"

Charles grabs his heart, clutching his chest. "Y-You—"

"I-I?" I mock him.

He smiles. I see the agent he once was flash across his face.

"—You might be next."

He's falls over, his eyes glazing over. Gone. I cock my head.

What a curious thing to say.

But it's over now. I wave for help, making performance of being hysterical, shocked at the sudden death of a man on the street.

And when the people swarm the body, I slowly make my way through the crowd. I ditch my disguise, and slip away, the way I always do.