Last Secret to Tell

The wind was crisp, with a sharp and bitter chill, which was a good indication that autumn would be colder than anticipated. Clint Menya struggled with his gunmetal gray trenchcoat, fighting the wind so he could button his coat against the intrusive chill. He unintentionally shivered as the wind's icy fingers found the back of his neck and sent shivers down his spine. He uttered a string of obscenities as he trudged through the puddles and slippery mud, left my this afternoon's freak thunderstorm. He paused in his steps and cast a brief, longing look at his black 1974 Dodge Charger. The afternoon sun filtered through the still overcast sky, glittering off the car's hood, as if teasing Clint for being in the wind and mud, instead of the car's warmth and comfort. Clint reluctantly turned his gaze in the direction of his destination, cursing yet again, because he'd agreed to take this assignment in the first place. He grumbled internally, because there had been a day when Clinton Alexander Menya would have refused such a rookie assignment. Those days were long behind him and before he had lost face after the still unsolved mystery of his partner's disappearance. Now Clint counted himself lucky that he'd even been considered for an assignment, fifteen years was too long to be a desk jockey, an agent needed field work instead of paperwork. All of that didn't change the fact that Clint despised the fact that his first assignment as a reestablished agent, meant he had to ruin his best shoes and suit, meeting some mysterious contact at an old graveyard out in the middle of nowhere. Perhaps he should have left the assignment to one of the young, fresh and eager rookies, at close to 59, Clint suspected he might be a little on the old side for such an assignment. As he nearly slipped and fell, just barely regaining his balance at the last second, Clint found himself wondering if it was possible to break a hip at 58. He muttered under his breath as he carefully picked his way down the slight embankment, not wanting an answer to his question. He kept his eyes on the ground, as he carefully chose each step, and after about five minutes he looked up to see that he had almost arrived at the old mausoleum. The faded, weathered and ivy overgrown structure stood in the center of the old cemetery and it was where his mysterious contact wanted to meet. Clint made his way to the door and as instructed, knocked three times. The heavy mausoleum door swung in with an ease which surprised Clint. He stood a few seconds, staring into the pitch blackness of the mausoleum, trying to give his eyes a few seconds to adjust to the darkness. Clint mentally berated himself for not bringing a flashlight and jumped back slightly as the inside of the mausoleum lit up with an unnatural light. The light seemed to have no source, which did little to relieve little to ease his ragged nerves. The inside of the mausoleum was empty, yet Clint felt eyes on him, watching his ever move. A noise behind Clint caused him to turn around and he came face to face with Allen, his long missing partner. Despite the fact that Allen had been missing for fifteen years, he had not aged a day. Clint took a stumbling step deeper into the mausoleum, putting more distance between him and Allen. Allen didn't speak, he simply pointed one long finger at Clint. By Clint's reaction, one would have thought that Allen had thrown something at Clint. However, all Allen needed to do was point that accusatory finger at Clint and that day those fifteen years ago, came crashing through Clint's memory. Clint had despised Allen from the get go, this handsome, intelligent, and widely like young man who had instantly stolen Clint's glory and popularity within the agency. Allen had quickly become the agency's favorite and Clint hated him for it and swore he'd find a way to take it back. It had taken three long years of pretending to be Allen's faithful partner and friend for the opportunity to arise and a more perfect opportunity couldn't have presented itself. Allen had been bugging the heads of the agency for a solo assignment, a chance to prove his dominance over Clint. The agency had finally relented, based partly on the fact that a family emergency was pulling Clint out of town, possibly for weeks. While Clint had went out of town, he had delayed his trip long enough to deal with Allen once and for all. Since Clint had been out of town when Allen went missing, he had never fallen under suspicion. The only downside to getting rid of Allen proved to be when the agency had lost respect for him when he'd failed so long to solve Allen's disappearance. After all that was his main job, finding the lost and those not wanting to be found. Of course up until a week ago, Clint hadn't really had a way to solve Allen's disappearance without of course shining unwanted light on him and possibly blowing his cover. Then, in a twist of fate, Clint had stumbled upon Allen's financial records and with a bit of tweaking was able to make it look like Allen had been in some financial trouble with the wrong sort of people, the kind of people who liked to dress their victims in cement shoes and dispose of them in a watery grave where they'd never be found. All through the years Clint had not been worried that he'd be found out, but rather he'd been nagged by the question of why Allen's body had failed to be found, when he'd left it so discoverable. Clint had no reason to worry about Allen's body being found, afterall he had killed enough times in the past to know he couldn't be caught. The agency had unwittingly designed the perfect serial killer when it had recruited and trained Clint. Ten victims later and no one was the wiser that he was the true culprit. Now however it looked like all of Clint's secrets had come home as Allen stepped into the mausoleum, followed by nine figures which Clint had just noticed. The others hung slightly aback as Allen strode forward, giving Clint no option but to back up, until his back was against the wall. With no escape, Clint struggled to breathe as Allen stood directly in front of him. Allen leaned in close to his ear and whispered, "Can you keep a secret?"