Guided Writing 1: Secrets Don't Make Friends

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Secrets Don’t Make Friends

The car pulled up, headlights swinging past my window, alerting me of her arrival. Of course, she’s right on time. I grab my bag, bounce down the steps, slip on my shoes and say, “Good bye, I love you,” to my ignorant parents. They reply but I’m already out the door, leaving the screen swinging behind me. I hop into the passenger sear and we head down quiet suburban streets until we reach a dark cul-de-sac. The only movement is of a bluebird flitting away as the headlights reveal its hiding place. There is a shiny black car waiting for us in the darkest curve of the street; inside waits a tall, dark, strong man who steps out as we park behind our new form of transportation. He is built to intimidate but has no affect on me these days. He hands each of us a package and looks at me inquiringly until I nod, take the package and walk to the black car. I change into the clothes from my bag, toss it into the back and get behind the wheel. I open the package, set aside the gun and put the keys in the ignition. The man waits until the lights hit him as we pass and then steps into the car we leave behind, taking our mundane identity with him.

I drive through back streets headed east, toward the highway. I look to my right and see Amanda. I had forgotten about her until now. Of course, she’s not Amanda anymore; now she’s Calypso, master of hand-to-hand combat, concealment of deadly weapons and markswoman extraordinaire. She was my top pick for a field partner and after 3 years of espionage and swindling, we’ve become quite the team; I seduce the rich men, find out their secrets, and then drug them when I get the chance. Calypso comes in to help secure the asset – whatever it happens to be – takes out anyone who gets in our way and cleans up the messes we occasionally find ourselves in. Technically we’re both free agents but lately the CIA are the ones paying the big bucks. We’re who they call when anyone of interest passes through the Midwest with a valuable asset and they want the job handled quickly, quietly, and kept off the books.

“What are you thinking about, Reese?” she asks.

“Just how we got to where we are Calypso,” I reply. I’ve gotten so good at twisting the truth that I don’t even notice how vague my response is. “We’re here.”

I park with the Grand Street Cafe in view; our man sitting somewhere inside. Both the street in front and the restaurant itself are brightly lit, an inconvenience. Calypso and I share a look, each of us allowing the various ways this operation could play out run through our minds. I take the gun that has never felt quite right in my hands and hook it to the holster on my inner thigh, shimmy my toes into a pair of dangerous heels, and grab the clutch filled with the last items from the package – a ring filled with a sedative powder, a laser disguised as eyeliner, a phone that will act as a tracker, and lipstick.

“Remember the plan?” I ask.

“Of course I remember,” she scoffs.

“Then run me through it again.”

“You go in, find the guy, do what you do, get him to go to his hotel room, get the intel we need, knock him out with the sedative in your ring and then I come in and help you find the asset.”

“Right. And if there are bodyguards?”

“Take ‘em out. Really, I don’t see why we’re going over this. We’ve done it thousands of times before.”

“This target is different. He’s a big-shot. And young. I haven’t dealt with his type before. Usually they’re older drunks who are easy to persuade.”

“I’m sure this guy will be just as willing. You’re exactly his type.”

“I meant it’ll be hard to get the information we’ll need to find the asset.”

“Then we’ll just have to get embedded.”

I nodded, she was right. If I didn’t get the intel I needed tonight, I’d have to stay with him until I could get it.

“All right. Here goes Operation Diamond.” I say, steeling myself in preparation for the night ahead.

“No regrets 2010,” she jokes, quoting the catchphrase of our high-school-best-friend cover.

I smile tersely in response and step out of the car. Tossing my long hair over my neck, I adjust my slim-fitting deep purple dress and then stroll confidently toward the restaurant. When I open the door, I’m hit with a blast of sound and pleasantly warm air mixed with the sweet scents of alcohol, fried vegetables and steak. It smells, sounds, and looks like every other ritzy restaurant in existence; its layout is perhaps a little different, the art on the walls is from another collection, and the chef went to another culinary school but the people are the same. The men in tailored suits, the women in various colors of the same dress and the waiters all the same fake, smiling servants of the upper class. Tonight the room is full of white collar criminals – I notice several faces from the database. But there is only one that I want to see.

“Where would you like to sit, Madame?” asks one of the obsequious waiters.

“At the bar will do,” I reply without looking at him.

He leads me through the restaurant and I am able to surreptitiously scan the crowd for my target. I don’t see him anywhere. My mind starts to move at a hundred miles an hour as I begin to wonder if something has gone terribly wrong – if we’re in the wrong place, at the wrong time, or if we’ve been set up. The CIA has never liked free agents and maybe they’ve decided that they don’t want us on the loose anymore. I run my escape route through my head. I can still get out; it’s not time to panic.
I sit down at the bar and order a strawberry lemonade – my favorite – and turn my head to casually search the bar. It’s then that my eye catches the admiring glance of another. It’s a tall, handsome man in a purple shirt and tie, with his suit coat draped over the back of his chair. Him, to be exact; our man is here after all. I smile coquettishly in return to his subtle attentions. He grins and motions to the open barstool beside him. I bit my lower lip and then oblige. This is too easy, I think to myself.

“Hard day?” I ask, gesturing at his glass of vodka. No wonder this has been simple, he’s already tipsy. He chuckles attractively.

“You could say that,” he replies, showing his perfect teeth, “And you? You have a perfect day?”

I knew he was referencing the lack of alcohol in my chosen beverage.

“I wouldn’t say that,” I counter, “But it is getting better now.”

He looks at me with deep blue eyes rimmed with long, dark lashes. I can’t help but admire how attractive he is.

“Forgive my frankness but you are beautiful,” he says after a breathless moment.

I was right, this man is dangerous.