The Mission

The clink of the metal spoon within the tall glass was a reminder that Devin stood in the kitchen and had yet to rejoin the party. He could still hear the chatter from the living room. It echoed down the hall in waves, the tone light and soothing before a raucous laugh would erupt.

He twirled the spoon between his fingers then began stirring the contents in the opposite direction. The drink was already mixed, the tasteless powder dissolved. It would be unnoticeable and seamless in its final execution.

Devin tried not to shutter. Even though he knew his duty he dreaded it, even more than he had any other assignment.

He spun the spoon again before pulling it out and tapping it on the rim. The rosy liquid continued to twirl about. He blinked. He could do this.

With a heavy exhale, Devin turned on the faucet and rinsed the utensil. Then he lathered it with soap, his fingers mindlessly working as his eyes ventured out the window perched above the sink.

A kid’s bike lay discarded halfway across the grass yard. Beyond that was a playground with a slide and swing set. Bouncy balls of all colors dotted the play space like enlarged flowers without petals. He knew the names of the two children that lived here, but he could not think of them now. They had gone to one of their relatives for the weekend while their parents hosted a dinner party—this dinner party—for some coworkers. He was one of those coworkers but that term was too general and nice to describe what all of them they really were.

Family—that was what they had been—or so he had thought. Then Peter and his wife Clara went off the rails. They started making plans on their own that were dangerous and unsanctioned. Then they had presented a list of hits to their closest friends and had begun to carry them out. That was when he had said something to the higher-ups—when he had turned them in. If it had been only a thought or a theory, an idea they toyed with but never acted upon, then maybe it could’ve been different. Maybe he wouldn’t have said something and been the one standing here delivering a sentence of justice that felt more like betrayal. But he wasn’t the one that had taken matters into his own hands, they were. He was just fixing the problem—although it certainly didn’t feel like he was repairing anything.

Devin finished washing the spoon as footsteps echoed down the hall.

“Devin?”

He popped the pill he had brought with him into his mouth then clenched his jaw. It tasted like rusted nails and he fought the urge to gag as his swallowed it with a dry mouth. He blinked back his disgust. Behind him, the light tread of socking feet moved from the wooden floorboards onto the laminated tile. Clara came to his side. She smelled of lilacs and honeydew.

He dropped the spoon into the drainboard.

“Hey, you okay?” Her voice was soft, the feel of her hand upon his lower back both welcome and unwanted.

Devin exhaled with a slow nod. They had been a thing once. Then Peter had come on the scene and Clara had made her choice. It was a good choice in the end—or so he believed at the time. Now he was not so sure. Now that things had gone the way they did he wondered if they had stayed together would she have been spared what was to come? Would he have been able to keep her from getting pulled into Peter’s desire to move faster than the organization they worked for wished?

It really didn’t matter now. The past was the past—as they say—and now he had a job to do. It didn’t matter that it would be quick, clean, and simple, his actions supported and commanded by those with a bigger paycheck. For him it would still be messy. History made everything messy and this one was going to ache long after the stinger was removed.

“Hey,” her hand brushed his forehead, fingers gliding through his dark locks, “I know you don’t always agree with Peter, but I don’t think he’s wrong about this one. Someone has to stand up to this man before too many more get hurt and we need the rest of you to help. We can’t do this one alone, not without getting caught.”

Devin nodded. He still had not looked at her, but he could tell she was studying his face, reading things in his stance that only she could. He hoped that whatever nervousness she picked up on translated to anxiety over their planned assault and not the one he had personally be assigned to by his handler.

“It’s a good plan,” she said as she leaned over the sink. Her head tilted, her hazel eyes seeking his.

He exhaled before glancing at her, stealing himself and his emotions. There was so much he wanted to tell her but couldn’t. The past could not be undone and he couldn’t go against orders. He couldn’t save her.

Her brows pinched as she watched him. A question mounted on her lips.

Devin glanced at the sink then cleared his throat. He could feel the burn of the antidote working through his chest. He was going to be sick from it for a few hours, but at least…

“Do you think…” He gripped the edge of the counter with both hands as he stared at the stainless steel drain. “Do you think things could’ve been different for us?”

Clara’s concern melted into pity before her hand dropped from his back. She straightened then brushed a hand through her light brown hair.

“Devin,” she said with a sigh.

“It’s silly, I know, but I…” He clamped his jaw shut. It was just words—all of it—but it still felt real. And at one time it had been real. He had believed there was a chance until… He couldn’t think about the kids right now. He couldn’t or he would never be able to complete his mission. So he said only what he had to to make her believe that he still felt something—which he did.

Devin pushed himself from the sink with a roll of his shoulders. “Sorry, this isn’t the time.” His eyes roved the bottle of floral dish soap before he found hers.

The left corner of her mouth settled into a partial smile that held both pity and affection. “You know…” Clara’s words cut off as Devin reached for the drink he had prepared and took a sip.

“Is that my drink?” She reached for it as he turned from her, his back pressing against the counter as he swallowed then took another sip.

“Hey.” She grabbed the glass then stared at it with an incredulous look. “I thought you were making this one for me?”

He shrugged with what he hoped was a playful grin.

Clara’s face puckered into a pout before she took a sip then swallowed.

Sixty.

“Mmmm.” She smacked her lips. “Only you Devin,” she said patting his shoulder. “Only you can make it the way I like.”

Fifty.

A thwick issued from the other room—the telltale sound of a silencer too familiar to be mistaken for anything else.

“What the…?”

Forty.

Clara set her glass on the counter. “Peter?” Her eyes found Devin’s before she moved to the end of the cupboard where a spare gun was kept.

Thirty.

Devin grabbed her arm and she whipped about to face him. Confusion and hurt were in her eyes as was the fear of betrayal.

Twenty.

She yanked her arm from him then procured the weapon. “I swear, Devin,” she said under her breath, “if you have anything to do with whatever this is…”

Ten.

She stormed out of the kitchen as Devin faced the sink. His eyes scanned the yard that was now covered in evening shadows.

Five.

The thud of a shoulder hitting the wall preceded the gun clattering to the floor.

Zero.

Thump.

The deed was done. The mission complete. The regret just begun.