Thin subterfuge had its uses.
He’d heard confessions, led Masses,
and passed secrets. A dicey
affair, a risk with dividends,
and conceived troves of information.
Now exposed, his lover a
double, he donned disguise and
patience. And waited, quite hidden,
till bells, close and sudden,
provoked movement and deadly aim.
He left the run-down building, a smile on his face and full knowledge of what he had to do next.
As a bonus, his back and shoulders felt great. Who knew that Morse code could be so therapeutic?
For Markov Luhanovich, the great Russian spy, the medium was the massage.
Adam Michaud lives in Toronto, making bad puns and being kind to
strangers. Occasionally, he writes things.
Josh Bonner, junior agent, answered his phone. “Yes, Director?”
“Where are the Apple and the Banana?”
“I’m at the grocery store right now, picking them up, sir. Is Golden Delicious okay?”
“You’re where!? They’re waiting at the Safe House, agent!”
Oh dear. Josh had forgotten about the code words again.
It was torturous sensory overload.
All the colours of the rainbow (along with a few nonconformist hues) strobed across a brightly illuminated screen. Dissonant, detuned tones blared and shrieked on powerful speakers.
He’d been told he was disabled, ineffective, useless. But the deaf, blind secret agent knew: ignorance is bliss.
“Hey!” someone shouted from behind her.
Mary turned to look. An elderly gentleman was rubbing his throat confusedly.
“Ow!” cried someone else, rubbing the back of their head.
A hand suddenly covered her eyes; a pen was at her throat. “Gotcha, honey.”
Having a commando for a husband was… exciting?
Jared Brown, secret agent, mouthed a silent “Thank you” to the eccentric elderly gentleman who had insisted he install the high-tech self-deploying winch into the boot of his European sports car, which was currently hanging by said winch, with him inside it, from the ledge of an exceedingly tall cliff.
@captainmakr responded to my request for two nouns and a verb over Twitter with the words “car”, “boot”, and “hang”.
I chose to use the word “boot” in the British sense, to mean the trunk of a car. Creative license!
Timothy Thicke peered through the binoculars, watching as Evan Edgelow lobbed a smoke grenade. He paused a moment to wipe condensation off the binocular lenses.
When he looked back, Edgelow was gone.
“Mission accomplished,” Edgelow whispered from beside him.
“How do you do that?!” Thicke asked, amazed.
“Optical illusions, mostly.”