The Spy

A man enters his last mission. His journey will only last a few hours, if that. But it will also be his most dangerous.

Lynx tumbled and then jumped, slipping off the parachute. His knees were bent, fists ready to fly. The railyard was quiet, and he relaxed.

Something beeped and Lynx threw his fists up again. There was another beep and Lynx discovered it was coming from his side. He looked down just as his watch beeped for a third time. On the face it read, “15 ft.” Lynx looked up and around the snow-covered railyard.

He walked towards an unattached rail car and the watch beeped faster. He looked at it again: 9 ft. Lynx looked up and scanned the area. And there, in the shade, sat a wooden crate that hadn’t accumulated any snow.

Lynx approached it and bent down to examine an electronic pad with buttons for numbers and the word enter.

“Hey, stupid!” Lynx flinched and fell back on his bum.

“Get up, stupid! Don’t you want the gun?”

Lynx sat back up and stared at the pad. He had finally noticed the area with the microphone when the voice shouted at him again; it sounded young, like from a teenager, Lynx thought.

“Are you so dumb you can’t speak, stupid?” the voice had grown even more annoyed.

“How do I open it,” Lynx grumbled.

“I want you to say that you’re a stupid butthole and you kiss your mom every night before you go to bed.” Lynx rubbed his eyes in frustration and groaned. They had warned him that he was going to have to go through challenges for certain advantages, but this was ridiculous.  

“I’m not saying that, kid.”

“You have to,” the voice shouted back, “or you’ll never get your precious gun and you’ll lose!”

“So if I say what you want me to say, you’ll open the crate? I won’t have to do anything else?”

“Yes, I’m only allowed to ask one thing.” The voice sounded unhappy to this requirement.

“Alright, fine. I’m a stupid butthole and I kiss my mom every night before I go to bed.” The voice immediately started giggling. Then there was a buzz and Lynx pulled the lid up. Inside sat a pile of disassembled parts for pistol. In seconds Lynx snapped it together. He was overwhelmed when he looked at it. For years he had carried it with him, the CZ 75. He had kept it tucked in his jeans while in South Africa. It had saved his life in Russia. It had claimed the lives of his rivals and victims all over the globe. Now it would help him win one million dollars.

Lynx checked his watch. The screen was blank. He had his weapon, now he had to kill 11 other assassins. What a fall for the strong, he thought. Decades ago they made movies about his kind. He was a legend. Boys and men dreamed of becoming him. Not anymore.

Lynx looked above one of the rail cars. The snow covered almost every portion of the roof, except for a small divot. He saw the black orb hanging on a black stick. He moved to his right. It blinked with light as it moved to follow him. He knew that tonight there were millions watching. Some hoping for him to win. Most hoping he wouldn’t.

A crack of a gun being fired echoed from far away. A mile and a half away, Lynx thought. There was a silence and Lynx glanced at his watch. But they wouldn’t tell you if one of your rivals was dead. You wouldn’t know you won until it was over.

Crack!

The crate near him splintered. Instinctively, Lynx ran. He rolled under a nearby train car and waited. Now he could think. Behind where he was standing was a large concrete wall. The crate stood next to it and a railcar. The shooter must’ve come from the other side of the railcar.

Lynx shut his eyes and searched his memories. Where could the shooter have been, and how far away? The shot was powerful, loud, and shot only one bullet. Lynx assumed a sniper rifle, perhaps a Dragunov. He remembered little from his landing on the parachute, but it was likely perched. If he stayed low, and put objects in the way, he should be fine. He sighed. He had hoped to retire years ago.

Dirt sprayed the entrance opposite from where he had entered. Lynx had been right. He snuck out from where he had rolled in and walked away to find a new hiding spot. The Covert Operations Games Committee (COGC) allowed amateurs who passed certain tests, signed several documents, and paid a substantial fee, to participate in the games in 2043. It was likely that whoever shot at him was an amateur, and that he would watch where Lynx had been hiding for several minutes. Enough time to get away and find a hideout.

Up ahead sat a misshaped clump of snow, as if someone had jumped in it and tried to reshape it. Lynx lifted his gun and fired two shots. Blood poured from the bullet holes making two red streaks down the snowpile. Another amateur, Lynx thought. To be considered an amateur, one must not have completed a mission for an intelligence agency. Lynx was no amateur.

The line of trains continued, but to a small, dark tunnel led off to the left. Lynx passed it without a second thought. He never took risks. This wasn’t a movie. Idiotic heroism looked great on a screen but here it meant death. Although he was one of the last of the professionals, there were still others waiting.

The rail trail ended abruptly in front of a three story house. Of course this wasn’t a natural ending. The COGC would have built this entirely for the games. A house provides plenty of areas to hide cameras and participants. Death could be captured up close and in high definition.

Lynx stopped and turned. He wouldn’t play their games. He would win safely and calmly. Not by jumping into a firefight. An oncoming hail of bullets advised to reconsider.

An remote controlled machine gun popped up from the ground and sprayed bullets in his direction. Fortunately it rose slowly and he had time to, once again, dive beneath the silver belly of a train car. His watch buzzed. It read, “2Kewl4Skool32 says hi ;).” Lynk growled and spat at the machine. There was a camera perched on top of the machine so the user who had purchased it could watch.

The shooting stopped, but Lynx stayed hidden. There was no way of knowing how many bullets were left in the gun. The train car ended in front of the gun, putting him in its path if he tried to run past it. The only escape was to crawl under the car to the house. Lynx had no other choice. He didn’t want to wait and get stuck between two enemies. Lynx cursed 2Kewl4Skool32 and then turned towards the house. The user had no business in the games. He was safe, sitting behind a screen, using an obstacle provided by the COGC to only those who could afford it.

Bullets sprayed dirt around Lynx, but he dove into the door, knocking it down, and into a room before the bullets could hit him. At least 2Kewl4Skool32 was deprived of his kill.

Lynx slid behind a counter and leaned back, allowing the wood to protect him. He saw, from across the room, a small, round, black orb: a camera. Right now, millions of people were watching him. He wanted to shoot at the camera. He wanted to jump through the screens of everyone watching and pull them into the house with him. If they liked this so much, they should join. He breathed deeply and allowed himself to shut his eyes for a second, just to calm down. Never get excited on a mission. That’s how you put yourself in deadly situations, as if what he was doing wasn’t deadly.

The floorboards above him creaked. Lynx listened to them walk further away from the front entrance to the edge of the house. Good, Lynx thought, I’ll go the other way. He passed a living room with a tattered, maroon rug; a dining hall with long table and no chairs; then another living room with two leather couches facing each other. The leather had lost its shine years ago.

There were gunshots outside, only a few shots, and then silence. Lynx heard the patter of footsteps rushing to the window upstairs. More dead, Lynx thought, the masses will be so happy.

They were. Lynx didn’t know that only three were left. All around the world, those who had bid on the final three participants were glued to the screen. Cheers erupted from pockets of every continent at the death of an opponent. Glasses filled with alcohol soared to mouths that already stunk of alcohol at the death of their chosen assassin.

Lynx got up and pulled out his pistol. He suddenly felt very cold. The creeks of the footstairs got louder. Lynx marched back through the living room and dining room and then stopped at the foot of the stairs. He couldn’t know that thousands were cheering him on, imploring him to go up and kill their enemy, their obstacle.     

Lynx wanted to stay hidden. Killing was no longer his prerogative. He’d stopped decades ago just before when spies were no longer needed. Of course he’d seen the change coming. Cameras everywhere. No city, no town, no house was left unwatched. Every meeting recorded. Every lunch out among friends watched. There was no longer a need for men or women in fedoras and turned up coats to hand paper slips of coded messages. Everything that needed to be found out could be found in the harddrive of a computer. And that information was far more dangerous than a knife to the neck.

But he wanted to finally stop killing, and he could only end it by killing once or twice more. He had become a spy because he wanted to, and he stayed because he had to. He remembered the dim lighting in the basement where he had signed away his name. A few dots and slashes at the bottom of a sheet of paper thick with fine print, and suddenly he was Lynx, no longer Brendan Thompson. And then, along with all the cameras, information on each spy around the world came out. People didn’t trust the underground world that had once kept them safe. Transparency was desired, and, when the lid was lifted, the world was shocked.

The heroes of the past became the evil henchman of the present. Spies were symptoms of a corrupt government. Not victims, but active criminals profiting off of a political structure. Lynx, and those like him had their names and faces glued to walls on buildings, in buildings, and near transportation. Lynx was fired from an insurance company when his heinous past was found out, and then it became impossible to work again, until the games started.

Lynx stepped on the stairwell. The wood was old and whined, but it was faint. Delicately, Lynx inched his way up the stairs. He heard no rustling or footsteps from the person upstairs. He held his gun up in the air, inches from his face. He reached the top of the stairs and turned to where he had heard the participant from earlier. He came to a door and froze.

The door was open, and a man with a black beanie was positioned at the window, his long sniper rifle pointing out towards the snow-covered trains. The gun was long and slick, and near the scope were several glowing buttons. This was not something you would find in a crate. Someone had sent him this gun, a friend. Lynx knew this was an amateur. No matter how much fans liked a professional, no one wanted to spend money on the likes of them.

The man suddenly grinned and Lynx worried he had been detected. There was a loud bang that sounded like a cannon had been fired.

“Woo! Another one down.” The man pumped his fist and grimaced with pleasure. Lynx dropped his gun and dove at the man. The man turned but before he could point his gun at Lynx, Lynx grabbed him by the throat and smashed him into the muddy, wood floor.

The man kicked his feet and swung his arms furiously, but Lynx put his knee in the man and leaned forward, using his elbows to pin the man’s arms to the floor. Lynx looked the man in his sky-blue eyes. His face was red and he was struggling to say something. Then Lynx felt something pinch his side. He tumbled.

The man pulled a thin knife out from Lynx’s side. Lynx tried to jump back up but crumpled from the pain. The man hopped on top of Lynx and threw his arms down, both hands gripping the knife. Lynx threw his hands up and the arms of the man inches away from his head. Lynx’s blood dripped on his cheek and trickled down into his mouth. The knife dropped lower and lower until the knife was just above Lynx’s forehead. For the first time Lynx was scared. His legs shook nervously.

The man leaned over him more, hastening the knife to its inevitable end. Lynx threw the man’s arms to the side. The knife cut the side of his head and he screamed, but he ignored the pain. His arms were already in motion, unflinching. Lynx’s knuckles cracked against the man’s forehead. He fell to his side and dropped the knife. Lynx swung his body to the knife and then swung his arm up, knife in hand, and plunged it into the man’s heart.

The man in the black beanie groaned and wheezed as if he had been punched in the gut. Blood dribbled out the side of his mouth. He pulled the knife out and wheezed sharply. He tried to pull his hand up but was too weak. His strength and will were gone. It had been fun from a distance with the sniper rifle. In person it was a different world and the man hadn’t had the training to prepare for it.

He stared at Lynx, his eyes begging for help. Lynx looked away. No matter who you were, at some point part of you understand the finality of the situation, The abrupt period at the end of your life story, and no one who knew that went easily. Men were reduced to blubbering children. Women like crying girls.

In the distance there was the roar of a helicopter’s wings. Lynx hurried down the stairs and waited in the snow for it to land. Far ahead in the snow where the remote-controlled machine gun turret had poked out of the ground, sat a limp body. That was the man’s final shot, Lynx thought. And suddenly all pity he had drifted away with the cool breeze. I hope it ends, he thought, I hope we realize this needs to end.

The helicopter fluttered away, with Lynx inside, to a stadium where thousands had been watching him on a large screen. There were cheer and jeers from all around him. A fat man in a suit awarded him a ridiculously- large check that read, “One Million Dollars.” Lynx didn’t smile but grabbed the man’s hand to shake it. The fat man flinched and then laughed at the scare. He held his hands up and mocked surrender. The crowd roared with laughter.

Hours later Lynx was in a hotel room. The rest of his days would be a countdown of the money he had earned today and from decades past. He wanted to live high up in the mountains, away from society. It had been a dream before, but by giving up his humanity he had earned the right to solitude. Lynx stared out his eleventh-story window at the piles of lights. One last night, he thought, one last night and I’ll finally be free.

Lynx looked at the small plane ticket to on his bedside table like a parent watches their child. He smiled and clicked off the light.  

  

Author's Note

I would love reviews, but if you don't want to write much, at least let me know if it kept you entertained or was too dry or dull. Harsh criticism very welcome!

Reviews

[Sara Lufrano]

Hi! I really liked that this was a story about an actual character with a past and thoughts and who was doing something. Thanks for that! I think there are some parts toward the beginning that lack a focus and I found myself wondering "What's Lynx's past" a handful of paragraphs before we were told. Lynx himself seems back and forth a bit in some parts, maybe a little struggle within himself about why he has to do this instead of the world being why. The world is also interesting, I'd like more concrete rules though. I like what you have and where you're going! Thank you for the read!

[richieb]

Kevin,
Your story is well paced and you keep the reader informed of the situation without getting too heady. You do a nice job of showing Lynx humane feelings.
The action is not overly descriptive but keeps the reader interested. Nice writing.
Richie b.