by David Alday

Created on: July 03, 2007

It had been such an easy plan, back at headquarters: rock star pass the first set of guards, diplomat pass the second set, and the third, well, just shoot them. After that, it was a quick swish and flick, a three hour train ride, and a brief handoff. Then he was home free, off to the Cayman Islands to drink boat drinks and pinch barmaids. The sort of plan that's doomed from the get go. He did it anyway.

Martin had always been good at rock-starring. Pull on a wig, and a cheap pair of sunglasses, and act too important to be bothered. He'd even considered it as an auxiliary career, should people ever stop needing to have other people killed. Unlikely, but assassins are paid to think of unlikely circumstances. He got as far as the first set of guards when things started to go wrong. Good at rock-starring, certainly, but he'd never been asked for an autograph before. He sighed, and scrawled something unintelligible, being sure to include a few extravagant loops.

"Oh my god," the guard cried. "Unintelligible Scrawl! My daughter loves you guys! She'll never believe I met you!"

Martin nodded, smiled happily, and promised to take a photo with him on the way out. Not a promise he intended to keep. Walking by a trash can found him richer one ID badge and poorer one wig. The anonymous Swiss Diplomat Formerly Known As Martin smiled, and strolled up to guards. It went off without a hitch.

However, at the third checkpoint, there were more than the usual two guards. Granted, after the initial shots there were only two, but that was much less than the zero it should have been. Martin had been forced to dive across the hallway spraying gunfire, his stealth ruined by the rat-a-tat-tat of the guard's unsilenced guns. He'd broken a nail. More importantly, the Prime Minister had been alerted, and the building crashed. Twenty-seven minutes of waiting, playing dumb, and thanking god he'd disposed of his weapons and finally, finally, things started to look up.

Someone had started a rumor that one of the guards had snapped and started spraying gunfire. The only living person in the room - a minor Swiss diplomat - had shakingly confirmed it. The very least they could do for him, after he'd had to witness such a spectacle, was to let him meet the Prime Minister. Through some quark of protocol he was ushered into the PM's office, unmolested. It was a stroke of genius.

While Martin wasn't molested, the moment security had cleared the room the Prime Minister wasn't so lucky. Stripped of weaponry,

• 1
• 2
• Next Page >>