''Walk, Don't Run''

[Following is a diary page retrieved from the files on Subject: 452859. ''James''. Status: Bonded to the Union. ]

September 1^st,

The job was simple. Get in. Do it. Come out. As simple as that.

The target is on an island. Sir Bernard Deauville. Chemistry genius. It is in the middle of a sea. Naturally. A submarine takes me within nudging distance of the island. A nudge is not a poke. A poke usually snowballs into a full blown slap fest. It is cold. The water is grey. The sky is tepid.

The villa is painted pink. Just great. Just my fucking life. I am tired. It has been 17 years now. 17 years of not having a life. 3-4 guards. A night watch that could be bypassed without the moon over me. No wildlife on the island. No four-legged wildlife at least.

I am sitting in a bush. The bush is close to the night outpost. The guards don’t expect me. They are busy seeing colours on a dark night. Ganja. It is grown locally. The target is known to be a patron. I slip through easily. For the villa now.

The guard is slow. I hit him in the throat. He gags. I punch him in the spleen. The spleen ruptures. Death is instant. No one will miss him tonight. I move on. Two occupants. Both guards. 3^rd guard should have been here. I pop a pill from my utility belt and toss it in. Special hypnagogic agent. Guaranteed to bring down an insomniac elephant. These were just men, itching for a nap. They go down. Real easy.

I hear a toilet flush. The door behind me opens. Guard #3. One high-kick and he falls like a pin. Silent. I listen. There is no one else. The target is through the big door. He stands with a  semi-automatic gun pointed at me.

(The following washed up diary page containing this sketch presumed to be by the subject was found on examination of the files.)

He says to me, I remember exactly, “Greetings, recruit. Caught you young, didn’t they? I was a fool when they found me. I gave in easily. I have changed now. I do not want any part of this madness. Turn around.” he says. “Walk, don’t Run.”

I know and he knows too. He will shoot me the moment I turn around. I conjure up one of those fancy pen-guns and click. It misfires. The bullet ricochets off my utility belt and slugs him in his stomach. He is hurt but not badly. The belt, however, is terminal. It gives out with a sick man’s dying gasp. The gas is an irritant. A door closes.

When I come to, the target has vanished. I heed his advice. I don’t run. I walk.