James: Picking up GroceriesMature

Given my paycheck, I could probably afford to drive a Ferrari, or a Rolls, but this is not the case. I drive a two-year old VW coupe. In my line of work it pays to be unnoticeable. All that James Bond crap with the tux and the Austin just makes you stand out form the crowd, and anyone who stands out can be a target. Wear normal clothes: casual, beige or grey trousers; a decent, but not decadent, shirt, with no tie (they get in the way in close-combat fighting) and a loose fitting, comfortable jacket, with enough concealed pockets to carry all your non-metallic weaponry.
As I near the car park my phone buzzes again. This time a text from 'Mr Smith'
"Jst 2 say tht yr dautr is sent home & fees hv bn dlt with
I smile again. Maybe me and Emily can take a holiday somewhere really nice. Surely all accountants saved up enough to indulge their family once in a while? I unlock the car door and get in, pressing my thumb to the reader and looking up into the retinal scanner as I insert the key into the ignition. If either scan comes back as not me, the car explodes.
When I say I drive a two-year old VW, it must be noted that during those two years it has been altered and upgraded to the point where it could probably out compete most of the top commercially available models. Not to mention it had numerous little 'alterations' that have honed it into a tool worthy of an assassin. Normally I would pick up Emily on the way back to the house, but I know that she is more than capable of taking care of herself.
Thinking this suddenly jogs a memory and, reaching into the glove compartment I pull out what appears at first to be a driver's licence, but clicking it open along an almost invisible hairline crack reveals a small photograph. In it, me and Emily stand in an alleyway, both grinning, both covered in blood. Behind us are the bodies of several muggers who thought that attacking a young father and his daughter would be an easy haul. One of my hands is holding the camera out in front of us, the other is resting on Emily's shoulder. She is holding two blood-covered stiletto knives.
I smile at the memory, and put the card back.
I manoeuvre  the car out of the lot and out onto the street, heading to my nearest pick up point, which is half-way across town. When I finally reach the 'store', a little garage owned by one of our informers, the sun is half-way down  its slow decent to the western horizon. The owner comes out as soon as he sees my car, and wordlessly hands me a bundle of papers through the window. I hod to him, I know that he has already been paid handsomely for this, and start up the car to head home. I'm about halfway there when I suddenly realise that I meant to do history with Emily today, and that I meant to do it about two hours ago.

The End

20 comments about this story Feed