Not an Option

Not an Option

The Agency was located in an ordinary commercial neighborhood. It was part of one of those three-letter government entities. Its expenses were in the budget for 'cleaning supplies. The tiny tidy lawns and well-pruned trees of the parking lot islands spoke of suburban calm. The brick and glass building was professional without pretension. It could have been, and at one time was, a medical center.

Michael faced The Professor with confidence. He was struck by a framed reproduction of a medieval woodcut. It was Abraham leading Issac to the altar. He wondered why he hadn't noticed it before.

By the end of the day he, Michael, would be a certified operative of The Agency. The last eighteen months of training had been physically, mentally, and emotionally exhausting. He did not know what to expect, but that was why he wanted this job. It was why he needed this job. Failure was not an option.

The Professor placed a document folder on the table. Michael knew it would contain his new identity. It would also include his first mission. Or not. It did not matter to Michael either way. One of his many mottos was “Don't know. Don't need to know.” His job was to do, not think. After the war thinking had become the enemy. During, Michael had paused to think. Once. Three people died. It was better to let someone else do the thinking. The Agency would think for him.

“Morning Nub. This,” The Professor said, “contains your orders should you complete your final training mission. I don't know what is in it. That information is above my pay grade. This,” he pulled a revolver from inside his jacket, “is your final test.” He handed the gun to Michael. “In a few minutes, a person will walk through that door. Shoot them.”

This would be like the mission in Montreal. Michael was told to put a small package on or in a stroller. He did. He did not know why, nor did he care. The next day The Professor showed him a news article about the heinous assassination of the infant daughter of the Canadian Prime minister.

“Good work Nub.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Michael did not show any emotions. He did not have any.

The door opened.

Michael raised his gun. He froze. It was Julie.

The Agency had given his life purpose. In the past two years, Julie had given his life meaning. He had kissed her goodbye that morning as if it would be the last time he would see her because he was sure it would be. He had no illusions about the life of a professional assassin. This morning he had chosen the Agency over Julie thinking he could at least have his memories. But he did not want this to be his last memory of her.

“Let me have that.”

Julie took the gun from his hand. She placed the barrel against her temple and pulled the trigger. There was a soft click.

She turned the gun toward Michael.

“Sorry, Michael. Failure is not an option.”