Bullets For Breakfast

“Join the CIA,” they said. “It’ll be fun,” they said. “You’ll help serve your country,” they said.

“Order up! French toast with a side of scrambled!” yelled Bob from the kitchen.

I hate my job.

My name is Abigail Elgort, and, technically speaking, I’m an agent of the Central Intelligence Agency. Like many people in the CIA, I have a cover job; I’m a waitress at a small town diner in Ohio. It’s decently far from Columbus, but close enough that people will still occasionally visit from the city. Those people are why I’m stuck here.

See, criminals try to lie low, to not draw attention to themselves. So they come to places like this, places where no one will notice or care. It worked, at least for a while. But at some point the intelligence community figured out that they were doing this. Probably from the movies, that’s where they get half their information anyways. So they started creating diners across the country, staffed with agents, placed in strategic positions. They initially tried to send people in when needed, but information spreads fast in small towns. Now, agents like me are stuck in these stupid diners.

That’s the rub. I can’t just come in when they actually need me. No, we have to play make believe so the town isn’t onto us. I have to show up six days a week to be a waitress at a crappy, small town diner. I have to deal with all the crap normal waitresses have to deal with, day-in and day-out. The only nice thing is that my pay is high and stable, though they confiscate my tips. Jerks.

It works too. This isn’t some failed experiment, these have been implemented across the country. I’ve heard rumors of places that dealt with so many criminals that they had to stop arresting some to throw locals off the scent. In most cases, though, nobody expects anything, whether civilian or criminal. It’s ridiculous.

I’ve also come to really resent the locals, the wards to my prison. Don’t get me wrong, they’re real nice people. The Schmidts always invite me over for Thanksgiving and Christmas, and Mrs. Harvey brings in cookies whenever she stops in with her grandchildren. But, since I’m integrated into their community, the CIA sees me as an asset. Putting in a new agent would take time and work they’d rather not put resources towards. I could quit, but it’s not like I can tell an employer that I was working at Bob’s Diner as a CIA cover. So, I’m stuck in a dead-end job at the CIA.

Every once in a while, we’ll get some action. Few months back we had a big one, a computer whiz that escaped from one of the Columbus facilities. They sent guys from DC to come take care of him. Cool story to tell I guess, though it’s not like I can actually tell anyone. But he didn’t fight, just tried to run away and tripped onto the tiles. He was in cuffs before he knew how bad he had screwed up.

But I assumed I liked the fighters, the ones where I get to actually act like a CIA agent for five minutes. I mean, I trained at Quantico. The windows are bulletproof, the door has an electronic lock, and my uniform hides a gun. Seemed like a waste when it’s a geek tripping over himself.

Today was one of those days. I knew it before the phone rang; these types just carry themselves a certain way. There were four in the mismatched crew. The first guy was dark skinned, with a big smile and a red leather jacket that looked like it barely fit over his broad shoulders. The woman following behind was extremely pretty, with long blonde hair that she styled well. She wore a pink sundress with a white cardigan. I wonder where she keeps her gun, I thought. The third was clearly the leader. He dressed in a sharp, black suit and had a face like steel. Lagging behind was a kid who looked like was still a teen. He was scrawny and pale as a ghost, and wore a faded Rush t-shirt with his ripped jeans. The big one, who was called BJ, came up to me just as the kid slipped inside through the double doors. 

“Table for four?” he asked in a heavy accent. 

Where is that accent from? Maybe South Africa? I thought.

“Of course, sir,” I said, and walked them over to a big, red booth. It was the farthest one from the entrance, even though there was nobody else in, so it would be harder to escape. The diner was structured such that the doors and restrooms were on the left, with a bar stretching from there to the right end and booths mirroring it against the windows. In the middle was a break that led behind the bar and to a pair of double doors which lead to the kitchen. The CIA had purportedly found this to be the most “efficient” configuration.

The woman and the leader sat on one side of the booth, and the kid and BJ sat on the other. At that moment, the phone started ringing, confirming what I had anticipated. I politely excused myself while they started looking at the menu.

“Bob’s Diner, this is Abby speaking. How may I help you?” I answered cheerfully.

“We need intel on the four that just came in. Chatter says they’re planning a robbery, something big. See if you can pick anything up and confirm, but don’t engage unless you have to,” said a gruff voice on the other end.

“Yes, we are. Is there anything else I may help you with?”

I paused the requisite amount of time, then thanked him and hung up. I walked back over to the booth.

“Can I get y’all started with something to drink?” I asked.

“Coffee. Black,” answered the man in the suit. His voice was stern and monotone.

“Do y’all have iced tea? I’ll have that if you’d be so kind,” answered the woman.

“The kid’ll have diet, don’t matter which kind, and I’ll have some of the OJ,” BJ said. His tone was cheerful, and sounded almost like was laughing as he spoke. The kid didn’t look up. His shaky hands were playing with a Rubik’s cube under the table.

“Coming right up,” I said. As I walked away, my earpiece tapped into the audio feed from the table, though little came through as they read the menu.

After a few minutes, I came back with their drinks and started taking their orders.

“I’ll have the steak omelete,” the man said flatly.

“I’ll have the chocolate chip pancakes, thank you kindly,” the woman followed.

“I’ll have a big stack of the pancakes. Nice and fluffy. With lots and lots of bananas, too. I love the fruit,” said BJ.

I asked the kid, smiling, and he finally looked up. “Um, waffles, with, uh, bacon please,” he said. 

While I walked away and put the orders in, the woman and BJ started talking. I could feel the suited man’s eyes following me.

“So, whaddaya y’all gon do with the money?” the woman inquired.

“Oh, a big vacation. Tropical. Somewhere they won’t find me, that’s for sure,” BJ laughed.

“Wade?” she asked.

“Well, uh, I don’t know. Haven’t, uh, haven’t really decided I guess. Need to, um, get through the, uh, job first” said the kid.

“Do not worry, my friend! We get through the job. Not hard. Fun!” BJ jostled Wade as he spoke. His distress did not seem to alleviate, however.

“Slater?” she asked.

He shot her a piercing glance and silently went back to observing me. It was the closest thing to emotion he had expressed yet.

“What about you, Belly Belle Belle?” BJ asked.

“Belle is fine, BJ,” she responded. Her tone was sweet, but slightly exasperated. 

Seems like that’s an issue, I thought, stifling a laugh. 

“I don’t know. Prolly send some back home to the family. Don’t want them gettin’ in no trouble on my behalf, but the farm is strugglin’ right now. We’ll see.”

BJ and Belle continued chatting, while the other two remained preoccupied with their prior engagements. Slater’s previously ironclad expression began to wear ever so slightly; the chit chat appeared to be wearing on him.

Despite this, it didn’t appear his guard was coming down. I could feel his watchful gaze as I walked into the kitchen, where Jim was on the phone in the back. I gave Bob and Eric the orders, which they started preparing.

“Higher ups say to try and deal with the kid if we can get him alone,” Jim quietly relayed. “Otherwise we’ll hit’em when they’re finishing up.” The CIA had found that this was when people were most unprepared.

When their food was ready, I walked it over to the table and began to put the plates down. None of it looked particularly appetizing, but it couldn’t be great food. That was a CIA mandate, to make sure it wasn’t suspicious. I wonder who gets paid to think up this crap.

“Ah, the bananas! Piled high on their pillows! Very good, very happy with this! Thank you! Ha ha!” said BJ eagerly. I smiled, genuinely this time. In spite of myself, I felt a fondness growing for him.

I walked back behind the bar, and began to wait. They didn’t talk much as they ate, besides BJ’s occasional remarks on how tasty his meal was. When they were about halfway through the meal, Wade got up to go to the bathroom. 

Well that’s lucky. After about a minute, I went into the women’s. Inside was a storage room that allowed for travel from one side to the other with a key, which I used to avoid Slater’s prying eyes.

Wade was clearly taken aback as I slipped inside, the air dryer humming loud. He instinctively ran for the door.

“Stop right there,” I ordered with my pistol raised at him, the dryer covering the noise. He looked back and stopped dead in his tracks, though the door had opened slightly. Slater probably saw that. Nothing I can do now though. I waved him over.

“Wha-What do you, uh, want?” he asked, stepping back into the bathroom.

“Look, we don’t have much time. I’m with the CIA,” I said as I flashed my badge, “and we’re willingly to strike a deal with you. We need info on this job. You give it to us, you get immunity. Understand?”

He paused for a second, and nodded.

“Good. Stay in here. We’ll lock the door. Things are about to get ugly.”

As this was going on, a different conversation was filtering in through my earpiece.

“We’re compromised. Something is happening in the bathroom,” said Slater.

“Ain’t no way. Why y’all gotta be so paranoid? We’re having a nice meal,” said Belle.

“First, this slop is not “nice.” Second, you two do not know our employer. I do. Our employer would rather not take chances,” Slater replied.

Shit. Kid probably doesn’t know much then.

“Time for the guns?” asked BJ in his usual, cheery tone. It sent chills down my spine.

“Yes,” answered Slater. “Assume they are all hostiles.”

“And what if they aren’t? What are y’all gon do then?” asked Belle.

“Their lives are meaningless to our employer, and by extension, us,” answered Slater monotonically.

I proceeded to throw out my ear piece so the gunfire wouldn’t come through. As I stepped out of the bathroom, I saw Slater get up and pull out his gun. 

Probably won’t hit them, so no use firing. Plus I don’t need them knowing I have a gun yet, I thought as I dived behind the rounded corner of the bar. I tried to look scared and surprised, but I couldn’t tell if they had noticed. A hail of bullets shot above my head.

Damn it. Didn’t get to see how Belle hid hers. I really wanted to know. Maybe I can ask if we both survive this.

When the firing ceased, I rounded the corner slightly and shot twice in their direction, hurrying back after I did. As they retaliated, I counted what sounded like four guns. BJ probably has two, I guessed.

The sound of gunfire blasted from the kitchen, and momentarily the attention was turned away from me. This gave me just enough time to turn round the corner and fire more precisely. I hit BJ’s shoulder. He cried out in pain as the bullet passed through, the cheerfulness absent.

He recovered quicker than I thought while grunting in rage. I could hear his heavy footsteps as he began to run towards me, crouching below the countertop as bullets from the kitchen struck the windows.

I heard a cry from the kitchen followed by “Jim!” Belle and Slater seemed to be focused on the kitchen, though one of them, probably Slater I wagered, seemed to be keeping an eye on me considering the occasional shot in my direction.

As BJ got close, I rounded the corner and shot his knee. I don’t want to kill him but I’ll lose in a one-on-one. He went down, wailing in pain. While one hand was gripping his knee, he used the other to begin firing haphazardly towards me. I quickly crawled away, though a bullet grazed my left arm.

Shit! This is not how I wanted this to go, I thought, wincing. At least he didn’t hit my right arm. But if I don’t kill him, he’ll probably just hit me again.

When the gunfire let up, I took my chance. Instead of rounding the corner, I ran farther out than he would have expected and shot a few times at his head. Two hit him, and he slumped over, blood spilling onto the checkerboard tiles. I took cover behind a booth while surveying the situation.

I wonder if they noticed BJ died. If they still think he’s alive, I can use that to my advantage.

I grabbed his gun and started firing it every couple of seconds. Meanwhile, I reloaded my own gun and crept along the bar. Peeking through the split, I could see Belle crouching down inside as the doors to the kitchen swung back. Slater was nowhere to be found.

He must be around the corner, shooting through the hatch. I need him alive. Do I risk going around? 

I heard another yell from inside. They’re gaining. Need to move now.

I stood up and booked it for the door. As soon as I was through, I shot at Belle’s back. She was hit three times and fell into a pool of her own blood. Assuming Slater was on my tail, I dived behind the serving hatch as bullets hit the door. 

At that point the front doors rattled. I glanced over the hatch and saw Wade yanking on the doors to no avail when a bullet hit him square in the back of the head and he crumbled.

Probably figured out he would’ve betrayed them. This guy is good.

However, Wade gave me the chance I needed. I signed to Bob and jumped through the hatch while he ran around towards the double doors. I twice shot at Slater’s arm, which was holding his gun. He cried out, dropping it. At that point, I stood up and aimed at this head.

“Keep your hands where I can see them!” I screamed.

Slater laughed, amusement permeating his normally dispassionate face. “You will not be taking me in,” he said, holding up a small device. A bomb, with two seconds on the timer.

Shit! “Bomb!” I screamed to Bob. I turned around and tried to run, but the force of it still hit me. My right ribs cracked against the bar’s counter. I screamed in agony as I slumped down, holding my right side. Bob came through the double doors, apparently unaffected by the detonation. 

“Dead?” I managed to eke out through the pain.

“Yeah,” he said. “We’re the only ones who made it.”

I did my best to nod. Bob was already on the phone with our higher ups, figuring out what the cover story was while switching the sign to “Not Open.” 

Six dead, two of ours. Diner is trashed. No information about the job or the employer. And I’m battered.

I hate my job.