While checking in I confirmed down-payment in my Cayman-account.
I’m ready, waiting for her signal.
Target has changed clothes, shaved and bleached his hair, but my retina-implant face-recognition algorithm confirms his ID with 99.9935 percent accuracy.
I pass time with Sudoku with my pen concealing the ricin-injector.
Abruptly muzak switches to Brian Eno’s “Music for Airports”.
Smiling I fold my paper carefully.
I raise to leave and while passing, I aim for his neck pretending to stumble.
Suddenly, syringe in hand, she’s there.
With her venom warming my veins I gasp:
“Was my price too high?”
I thought about all that can happen at airport, and why not a bit of double crossing. This week it’s Midsummer so I might be busy returning comments again.
Friday Fictioneers is in strict control by Agent 007.5 Rochelle, and she keeps us all in track, counting every word so the 100 word limit isn’t exceeded (thank God for hyphens). If you want to join check the prompt out.
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June 19, 2019