No More Mistakes

He ran and ran until he couldn’t breathe anymore at which point he quickly darted down an alley way and stood panting, bent over in a doorway. It had all gone wrong, terribly wrong. He had been doing this job for years and the one mission he never expected to go awry had.

He’d been assigned to this job a couple of weeks ago and it had seemed easy. Easy breezy was the term he had put to his employer when he accepted. What a cocky son-of-a bitch he was. The mission was simple, take out the target, make it look like an accident then disappear. About par for his job as a whole.

The target was none other than Salim de Sade, Osama Bin Laden’s French contact and a formidable enemy to the US, the World and peace. At the time of the operation Salim was going to be in Sri-Lanka on vacation and giving a conference for his legal arms company’s plan for expansion. Right, vacation he thought. Salim seemed to be perpetually on “vacation”. Clubbing in Rome one night, eating with a French Model in Sevilla another. It was amazing and almost untraceable that he had dealt arms and Intel to Osama for the past 1 ½ years. Almost untraceable. Right before he was put on the mission his employer had picked up a phone call with Salim and an unknown man (presumed to be Osama’s son) discussing the buying and delivery of mass explosives. His employer’s employer (the CIA among other national intelligence groups around the world) had determined it was time. One less scumbag on the planet and the world might seem a little shinier.

The next week he was on a flight to Sri Lanka with his contact’s name in his breast pocket. Upon arrival he handed the Customs agent his passport (the one of many he had) citing his trip as purely for pleasure. He would take pleasure in taking this douche bag down.

At his hotel he unpacked his one carry on bag: A white button down shirt and khakis with a baseball cap and glasses. He would be playing the role of the stereotypical American tourists. That’s when the phone rang.

“Yes?” he said.

“There’s a fax for you at the front desk, sir,” the receptionist said in a heavy accent.

“Thank you.” He then changed into his get up and went down to the front desk, grabbing his fax on the way out.

“3:00pm” was all it said.

At 3:00pm sharp he arrived at the pre-arranged meeting point (arranged by his employer) to see his contact. Sitting on the corner reading a Sri-Lankan newspaper was the man he has seen in the picture given to him. He sat down opposite the man who put his newspaper down.

“The location is set,” the man said sliding an envelope over the table to him, which he subtly covered with his fax, picked up and put in his pants pocket. He waved over the waitress and ordered a cup of coffee.

“How’s the soccer team doing?” he asked casually.

“They’ve had a shitty season,” the man’s accent was French, the southern province he assumed. He didn’t know who this contact was or who he worked for. All he knew was his employer had sent him here and so he was here. His coffee came, he drank it down and left as the man picked up his paper and continued to read.

Nine hours later and he was back out on the street. This time in mostly black .He had gone to the address the French man gave him where he had been given all he would need for the assignment. Since it was a “silent operation” as his employer called it no guns were needed. He arrived at the hotel on the one and only night Salim would be in bed early. Salim’s conference was the next morning to tell his investors of his legal enterprise how their money would be spent. Salim had to put his best face forward.

He took the elevator up to the top floor and crept along the hallway. He saw the one Rent a guard Salim had in place, rushed forward and quietly snapped his neck from behind. He held the guy as he slowly crumpled to the floor. After picking the lock he dispatched the two guys in the suite’s living room in the same manner as the guy in front. Tip toeing into the bedroom he could see Salim’s slow breathing, deep in sleep. It wasn’t until he passed by the bathroom on the right, with the full length mirror that he noticed the guy under the bed with the gun. He immediately dropped and rolled back to the living room as a shower of bullets rushed past him. Silent mission my ass, he thought and he rolled to the right and pulled the front door open running as fast as he could. He turned the corner and shot up the stairs to the roof. He could hear Salim and his guy shouting as they slammed into the stairwell after him.

He ran and jumped off the roof and immediately pulled the cord releasing his parachute. He felt the wiz of bullets flying by just missing him. Then one hit, hit the chute causing him to plummet quickly. He pulled on the left and as he veered around as he gathered the chute, making it smaller and closing the hole where the bullet had hit. He landed in the middle of a crowded street barreling into people. It caused a scene; some people clapped but mostly they were pissed. At least they had broken his fast fall. He ditched the chute and started running.

“Fuck,” he thought as he ran. “Now what?” Now to protocol. He must call the boss and tell him the job went south. Standing in the alleyway, thinking of what he would say to the big man, he turned around and saw the French man from the coffee shop standing a few feet away with a silencer in his hand. He put his hands up “What’s going on?” he asked dumbfounded.

“You’re a liability now, man” Suddenly the French man was no longer French but speaking in a perfect American accent. He should have known.

“A liability? No no no, I’ve been a loyal employee for the past 5 years,” he said the tension rising in his voice.

“Yeah, but you know how the boss man feels about mistakes,” the American, no longer French man said.

“I haven’t had any mistakes,” he said slowly walking to the right towards an open door. Following him with the gun the no longer French man said “Until now.” With that the American pulled the trigger just as he threw himself towards the open door.