Knockout

Spy flick.

Fiction

 

It’s sunny in Venice.  The skies are clear and the canals are a bright blue that contrasts the breaking of the currents in the reflection of the sun and against the lonely birds that sleep in the lazy waterways. At the entrance to the Alonzo Canal a heavy speed boat turns tightly around the corner that opens into the canals and under the bridges and struggles into its first turn. The canal water spits out the far right side of the speedboat as the boat pushes itself hard into the water and the engine fights its way out of the corner. The boat finds a soft current and rides into the canal and towards the Alonzo Bridgeway. The engine roars into the sleepy city, echoing into the city walls and filling the locals with curiosity and the women with potential gossip for a week of dinners.

                The driver throttles the engine and pushes hard into the canal, ignoring all boating laws of speed and safety. The city that she sees as she rides the boat towards the first bridge is Venice, a sleepy city of lazy merchants, faded paintings and collapsing buildings. Venice is a Grand Tomb.  The woman inside the speedboat leans into the heavy wind as she glides over the water in the sleepy canal. The old men who sleep in their old boats stand and protest against her speed with a fist in the air. Nobody hears their protests, only the power of the engine as it fills the city streets. The woman in the boat watches the speedometer and craves just a little more speed. She leans into the wind with worry. As the woman approaches the Alonzo Bridge she leans aside the wheel and reaches into the glove compartment. She finds a small pistol.

                As she reaches the bridge three men are walking to the far side of the bridge she is passing underneath. The men are all wearing heavy snow jackets, jeans and boots. As they watch her boat disappear completely from sight under the bridge, they rush to the opposite side and each man withdraws a weapon from his oversized jacket. Just as they see the speedboat arrive from under the bridge each man fires rapidly at the roaring speedboat. The old men in the old boats fall inside the canal, hold their breath and hope for the best. The lazy merchants run inside their shops and lock their doors. The idealistic tourists run up to the lazy merchants and beg for them to unlock their doors. The firing continues from the heavily silenced sub machine guns that the men have slung around their arms. The woman inside the speed boat has turned to face the men and is firing from her small pistol as the boat speeds away from the bridge. The speed boat is overtaken by bullets before the woman is. She continues firing at the bridge, hitting a frightened idealistic tourist as he runs for protection in one of the shops along the sides of the street. The woman is overcome with pain as the bullets find her inside the speed boat, she falls back, collapsing into the wheel and steering the boat sharply to the right where it quickly slams into the side of the canal.

                The men stop firing and glance around them. The bridge is empty except for one injured, clueless but hopeful tourist and the streets are empty except for the rhythmic pangs of the police cars echoing in the narrow streets. Two of the men begin walking briskly across the bridge, tossing their weapons into the canal. The last man walks up to the hopeful tourist, leans down and looks into the eyes of the confused man. The third man holds his stare and watches the tourist. He sighs heavily, holds the weapon to the man’s forehead and pulls the trigger twice before the tourist screams. The third man walks briskly across the bridge as the other two before him had.

                As the echoes of Italy’s Finest grow in volume and clarity and the police car tires screech across the city, a young man in a Bob Marley t shirt gets out of his car. He walks towards the bridge as sweat beads gather then fall down his face and into his purposeful shirt. He reaches the bridge and his grip tightens around the package he is carrying as he watches the woman inside the boat inspect her injuries amidst the wreck. The woman has found her pistol again and is holding it in her lap as she spits blood onto the floor of the boat. The man with the package finds his place on the bridge and reaches inside. He pulls out the weapon and its three parts. He knows the weapon. He is watching the woman bleed inside the boat as he assembles the weapon by memory. The handle, the firing mechanism, the explosive. It’s a simple weapon, even he can fire it. He leans the RPG over the side and places his elbows along the romantic guard rails of the bridge. He watches the woman sit up a bit farther and struggle into the seat inside the boat. The boat is burning and the woman is watching the fire. The man hears the police gather around the side of the bridge and fires the weapon at the boat. The canal bursts into flames above the speedboat , collapsing into the boat and into the waterway. The boat slides into the bottom of the canal.

                As Italy’s Finest gather around the bridge and run towards the man with the used weapon, a single round is fired from within a shop. The shot is accurate and with intent. It finds the man with the used weapon, who slinks over the romantic guard rail, a trail of dark blood falling down the side of his head and over his ears. The policemen run up to the man as he falls across the side of the bridge and into the ground. They demand he put his hands somewhere and stand somewhere else, but he does not move. The man’s blood gathers around his fallen body and the police men give him a stiff kick as he lies on the ground. They turn over his body and find the wound. The police men who have reached the man look up into the tall buildings along the streets of Venice and wonder. They watch the windows and watch the yellow curtains sway inside the windows. A man radios men with more radios, he declares the man with the used weapon Dead on Arrival. He asks for many more things. He is sweating in the breeze at the entrance of the canal. He does not understand the dead man with the used weapon.

                Just then a man from inside a shop opens the front door and closes it gently, adjusting his summer suit and jacket. He reaches inside his pocket and pulls out a pair of dark sunglasses and a piece of used paper. He looks up into the sky and spots it for just a moment: the quick reflection of the tip of the wings of the UAV that was monitoring the entire situation. He places the sunglasses over his eyes, unrolls the paper and held it up for the men in Langley to read. It read in bold, excited marker, “Houston, we have a problem”.

 

II.