I just watched Killing Eve. Loved it. She is so wacko, loves the job killing others just a bit too much. If not a professional assassin, she’d kill innocents for fun. So many movies and shows get it wrong. Bombshell, Salt, Black Widow… all fictional assassins, especially the ladies, are either crazy or brainwashed. They seem so bad ass with their ninja skills. 

For me, this is a job. I get orders. I follow them. I get paid. I move on. Simple. And truth be told, I’ve never had hand to hand field combat because I never miss, never hesitate. Sure I’m trained to kill with my bare hands – I’m very bad ass if I do say so myself – but when we hit women do our jobs correctly, life is wonderfully boring.

Before enlisting I wanted to be an actress. I never had the guts to be on a stage, but one dreams big. I tried; I had big plans to audition for the spring musical. I froze. I peed – a little. I tried. I failed. Let’s move on.

Both parents served – air force pilots; heroes they say. Neither came home from Iraq so Grandma was more supportive of theater career options than most guardians. Outliving another offspring, or grandkid, was too much. Her heart broke when I talked to recruiting officers, but Grandma let me join up early. She died thinking I was MIA.

Mom taught me to shoot before riding a bike. At seventeen, I bested every boot camper, posting five year high scores. Blah blah blah, here I am.

Shooting a high valued target is like the Kentucky Derby TV coverage – hours of babbling journalists, trivial facts on horses, jockeys and trainers, and clips from past races, especially if a race horse movie was recently popular. Then you get ninety seconds of over hyped drama, at least,  I suppose, the polar opposite of golf.

I’ve been scoping out this spot for weeks. And in a moment the show will be over, on to the next. Someone would watch that show, if a camera crew followed me around as I researched the building, the angles, the wind patterns.

“Tell us, what’s the play? Whose the target? Why do they deserve to die?”

“Oh, Bob, if I told ya, I’d have ta, you know,” then I make the cut-the-jugular gesture and sound and we all pretend to laugh. 

“Any second thoughts, not receiving target pics?

“Well, Bob, ya know that would be ideal, knowing what the target looks like, but sometimes ya gotta, you know, improvise,” I only give myself this dummy voice when pissed with Command, condescending as Bob simply repeats  my concerns. It’s like Bob can read my mind. “Pretty freaky, Bob!”

Then for hours, as I just lay here in wait for my targets, golf-like whispering commentary.

“Well, Bob, I think, when that door opens across the way there in that room, she will shoot. What’s your take, Felicia?”

“Cucumbers wish they were as cool as this veteran, now in her ninth year with the Company, twelve years total sniping for the U S of A.”

“That’s right, Fel -“

Hang on, Bob. Yup, that’s definitely a door knob turning. OK, elevator pitch session on pause, bang bang and I can get a bite –  STARVING!

What’s this mess? There’s supposed to be two targets, not an army of suits. I swore after Peru, no more off book assignments. No more collateral damage. No more –

Wait….

A couple of geriatrics just entered. I can’t get a clear…. 

No!

This can’t be right!

I need to get confirmation. I can’t take this shot. This must be a mistake. I’ve never broken protocol. But –

“Susan? This is Deirdra. I can’t find you anywhere.”

“I’m right in front of you, look up and walk straight ahead. Hurry, lunch is getting cold.”

“There you are, I almost called and canceled. Bad headache.”

“Agent, take the shot, NOW! No time. Level alpha. Fire, before it’s too late. It’s not him. Hasn’t been for at least six months. Hurry, take the shot. TAKE THE -” 

Radio went dead.

WTF? So much for codes. I’ve never not followed orders.  But that’s –

Level Alpha?

Top priority!

I guess I have no choice. Re-acquiring –

He’s looking right at me. He sees me. He knows. Mr. President? Please say that’s not you? He just waved. 

I can’t take this shot. These orders must be mistakes. Command testing me? Compromised? 

Shit!

Is that the Russian President with him?

He blinked. The President blinked. But those eyes. His eyes. They’re not human. Snake like. Fish? 

Shit!

That bullet just missed my ear. 

HEY, I’M THE SHOOTER HERE! 

Think. 

BANG BANG BANG

They’ve got me pinned down. When was the last time I needed escape routes? NEVER! I never miss.

Think!

BANG BANG

That’s not the man I voted for? That wasn’t a man.

Think!

Is his detail aware? 

Are they human?

BANG

Was I expected? 

BANG 

Set up? 

BANG

A patsy?

As much as I love twenty questions, bad timing! I can’t get to the door or out the window, but if I don’t move?

Trapped!

These buildings are old. Yes, just like my place, every carpet hides the flaws. These floors are so thin. If I dig through these broken tiles and yank up a floorboard – bam – nothing below, insulation is a luxury in these parts.  

“Ah!” 

That one got my arm, barely, enough, damn that hurts. No time.  Five stories down and –  crap, a herd of elephants coming up the steps. They’re definitely not special forces with those Clydesdale trots. How are they here already? Definitely a set up! Up it is.

Chances are the roof is covered by now; there are plenty of vantage points. One choice. I hate not having choices.  Full on Jason Bourne time, out the western wall window, across the alley…

That looks so much cooler in movies. Nothing down below or above. Or better, keep heading west, building by building. 

Better take a sec to at least patch the bleeding. Nothing fancy. Temporary. The bloody bread crumbs make this athletic effort pointless. They can amputate later, right? Good, still maintaining some humor. 

Can’t decide, James Bond or Mission Impossible? Or better, dad’s favorite,  Benny Hill end credits chase theme. Minus the life or death tone of the moment, this whole operation is a farce. 

OK, Benny Hill it is. Cue end credits, let’s go.

“SORRY!” That mom will have quite the story to share at dinner. Scared the crap out of her flying through the window. Guess she’s never seen American action – 

“HEY!” That bullet was so close it could have wiped my nose clean. 

How did they out-flank me so quickly? Definitely a set up! 

BANG BANG BANG

CRAP! That one on the left did not spatter red like his partner. So some are still human. 

BANG BAMG BANG

Two more but that path is completely blocked. Fine, exit, stage right, out the window and pray for a soft laaaaandiiiiiiing. 

Phew! I thought I remembered this bakery had a wide awning. Out of Benny Hill and into a Pink Panther, right? Too bad there’s no time. That pagoca was divine the other day. Maybe? Nope. Save self first, dessert later, if lucky.

OK, nine hundred meters, tops, maybe a thousand if I have to weave through the side alleys. If I can stay under these awnings and overhangs enough to avoid a few stray bullets, I can get my escape boat in Batumi Bay. 

“I’m coming in hot, prepare to dive.”

The world thinks I just tried to assassinate The President. In addition to every uniformed American, local police around the world in every city will be after me. Not even the company can protect me. 

“WOAH!” That explosion came from the port where my ride is waiting. 

“DD, negative. Extraction points compromised. You’re on your own. But I left you a little gift three hundred meters due east.”

“But that’s -“

“Say no more, but yes. We are all compromised. I may not even be me in the future, so trust no one. GO GO GO!” 

When the closest thing you have to a friend quotes The X-Files in a very non ironic way, things have really gone bad. Those eyes. 

Was the president now an aaaaaliiiiieeeen?

This water is freezing. Three hundred yards was just past the end of the fishing pier. Is that a… now   that’s what I’m talking about. Personal sub? Tonight, call me, “Ms. Bond.”

I’ve never had many acquaintances in Georgia, but sometimes all you need is one great friend. This should get me out, undetected, to friendlier shores on the other side of Istanbul. 

I need time to think. Twenty hours down here should be enough to make some plans. I cannot do nothing. I cannot just lay low. Something big is happening, or already happened. 

THE PRESIDENT IS AN ALIEN. 

A lifetime of science fiction binging and special forces training combined, if there’s any hope at all, I might be the only one qualified for what comes next. It might be time for Private Gabby Thorn to come back from the dead.