The Mole

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Action and Adventure  |  House: Booksie Classic
This is harmless, I assure you, there are zero curse words, and the rudest word I have included is 'Damn'.

I hope you enjoy it :)

Submitted: January 10, 2012

A A A | A A A

Submitted: January 10, 2012

A A A

A A A


 

The Mole

 

 

 

The man had been chosen with intense care and the woman who had chosen him, had her experience, any mistake, any slight mis-calculation would have blown the entire operation. He was the postman, at least, that’s what everybody would believe him to be. Nobody second glances a postman delivering messages, that was good, because this postman only had one letter in his bag. Underneath the plastic wrappings of the red duffle was a single address on a single piece of paper, a cheque for a million dollars and a swiss mini gun, small enough to fit inside a small lunch box, and it was loaded with 3 bullets. It was to ensure lightweight carrying, and if he was questioned by any police he would know exactly what to say and do. But he knew he wouldn’t be.

The man had pulled up outside the house, Mountain Rovers, it was called. He took out the message and carefully slid it into the postbox outside the house. After making doublly sure he wasn’t seen, he disapeard as quickly as he had appeared.

 

The jacket he was wearing wasn’t his own, he hated the colour that was picked out for him, in fact, the owner of the jacket was lying, covered in cement, at the bottom of the Pacific Ocean, most probably dead.

 

The letter, had it have been checked for fingerprints, would show up completely clean, the mans fingerprints had been surgically removed, and he would never have fingerprints again, but he did as he was instructed, and earned a decent some of money for it. He smerked a second smerk, dug into his pockets and pulled out a lighter and a ciggarette. He lit the lighter and stepped into the shadows.

***

 

“Package to be delivered at Tray’s Square, this afternoon.”

 

That’s all what the letter said, Frank lifted it up, and looked at the back, completely blank, just like any letter… but this was no ordinary letter, if it had been, shouldn’t there be a postage stamp on the front? Shouldn’t the postman knock first? That’s what he usually did. He opened the letter, on the inside there was the date, Saterday 5th of May 2011.

James had always knocked first for a chat before heading off, why would today be any different? The middle aged man, slightly bald at the back, was wearing his pyjamas, and pink flip flops, he was 50 years old and was desperate for a good sleep. Looking at the calinder he sighed, and tossed the letter in the bin.

Frank was a lawyer, house properties, and being payed £60,000 a year wasn’t making his job any easier, he was always getting letters about bankruptancy and he was fed up about the moaning

.

His daily saterday schedule, he was planning to carry on as normal, have a drink of tea at 7:04, have breakfast at 7:10, brush teeth at 7:30, get changed at 7:33, and of course do his hair and make himself tidy and neat. The rest, his house maid, Molly, took care of. Frank’s schedule had been printed out and stuck on to every fridge in the house, a copy was aslo placed in the top right corner of every door in  every room of the house. He liked to keep things organised, he never made anything untidy, the second reason he had hired a maid was for someone to talk to, someone to listen to him.

 Dolly had her own schedule, as she did everyday, however today she seemed perticulary hurried. “What’s the hurry for?” Tim was in a tired mood, he owned Saterday, it was his day, nobody could tell him what to do, or where to go.  She hesitated for a brief second, untill she finally stopped working. “Nothing, sir”

 as she carried on Tim didn’t notice the quick smile she gave him as he got up. “Well, I’d best be off, I’m meeting an old highschool buddy at McDonalds, corny huh?” She laughed,

“Not at all sir, you must enjoy yourself”

“Thankyou, you too.” Dolly wasn’t quite sure what her employer had meant, her employer wasn’t quite sure what he had meant either, but he carried on, as usual. He put on his new italian leather boots, and slowly buttoned up his shirt. “Dolly, where’s the front keys?”

“Hanging on the keys rack, sir.” “As always.”

Tim looked at the keys rack up and down, “No, it’s not there.” There was annoynce in his voice, and Dolly had picked it up.

“Here we are.” As she handed the keys to him in an instant.

“Hmf. I must be getting old.” Dolly had now begun on her way back to the kitchen. “your only as old as you feel, sir.” “Remember that” Shut went the door, Stomp,stomp went Tim’s feet and a nearby bird was making a nest in a tree. The bird seemed to mock him, flying away to the top of the tree, it was free, no worries, no needs.

 

***

 

“What do you mean the letter’s in the wrong house?!”

“The letter.. it’s in the wrong-“

“That question was retorical” The woman spat the words with complete hatedrid to everything good and decent. “Sit down” Max obeyed the words as if his life depended on them, he sat down where he was standing, ignoring the chair she was pointing at. “That’ll do.” And in no less than 3 seconds, she had pulled out Max’s L96A1 sniper rifle and shot him straight through his temple. The camera that had caught the move left a very surprised caretaker almost speechless, but he was used to it. She had grown up in the Southen part of Wales, where she ran away from home, and was raised by fearless bandits, who they had hoped to make the young girl one of them. However she had plans of her own, and when she had escaped, she had killed them all. As it would, she was thirty six now, and she would have led the same life 26 years ago, she liked her job, a lot. It consisted of 3 main parts; Deploying missions, Torturing, and Kidnaping. She was brought up to be almost… inhuman, and above all, ruthless, and never-hesitating.

 

The name on her birth cirtificate is “Mary-Jane Watfield” although, she doesn’t go by that name, she has a different name in every country. Most people recognise her as ‘Black Lucy’. She liked it, and it suited her, in a twisted way.

 

 She held up her phone, and spoke 4 words into it. “We have a mole.” 


© Copyright 2017 RSA1997. All rights reserved.

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