Bonnie & Clyde - Part 4

For most of Roberto’s career, it had been just plain old boring. That’s the real part they don’t tell you about the CIA. All the movies and video games paint a glamorous picture of adventure, but outside of a select one percent of agents in the agency, CIA work was incredibly mundane.

You get a pair of binoculars and a travel card that you have to return, and that’s about it. You follow people, jot down their patterns, then write up a dry report and move on to the next assignment. Not exactly the thrilling life Roberto had envisioned.

He hadn’t joined for the action per se, but he had hoped for something more fulfilling. Instead, he found himself shuttled from CIA base to base across the globe, collecting polite nods and perfunctory thank-yous.

Now, however, whether by luck or fate, everything had changed. John Nero, a rogue CIA operative and former mafia prince, was sitting in the very restaurant Roberto had been stationed at. Roberto was originally posted there to monitor chatter among members of the Russo family, several of whom were known to frequent the spot, as a chef.

But life had intervened. Now John Nero, of all people, had walked into his operation. It was Roberto’s golden ticket. He was short and thin, with thick glasses due to poor eyesight. But in his youth, he had captained his high school wrestling team and had earned black belts in multiple martial arts disciplines.

Now, at thirty-nine, retirement was on the horizon, and he had little to show for his 20 years of service. If he could capture John here, it would launch his career to new heights and give him a story to tell new recruits. He would finally feel like he had done something meaningful.

Roberto stood behind the kitchen’s observation window, watching John calmly finish his plate. The kitchen staff was split. Half continued with their culinary routines, while the other half had been discreetly briefed. They were preparing for a takedown.

Roberto believed John was either about to surrender or was bluffing. But logic leaned toward surrender. Headquarters had given one clear instruction: take John in, and ensure he wasn’t carrying any classified intel or encrypted codes.

Paul Figueroa, the man in charge of the operation and the local CIA boss, was currently downstairs finalizing their approach. Figueroa, with his old hound dog demeanor and salt-and-pepper hair, had given Roberto simple marching orders: stall John until they were ready.

Roberto had other plans. He was going to take John down himself and claim all the credit. He picked up a bottle of champagne and concealed a handgun beneath a folded napkin. Then he checked his reflection, fixed his collar, and took a calming breath.

This was his moment. John appeared unarmed. Even if he wasn’t, Roberto didn’t believe he would make a public scene. At least not in a place so heavily monitored. If he tried, he would be taken down instantly. Roberto pushed through the kitchen door and made his way down the hall toward John’s table.

His pulse was quickening, but he worked hard to keep his stride relaxed. As he reached the table, he gave a sly smile.

“Did you like your food?” he asked.

“Yes,” John replied, “although I’m only about three-fourths done.”

“The fettuccine is the best we have here,” said Roberto smoothly.

“My compliments to the chef.”

Roberto tilted his head down, his eyes still locked onto John. “So, John, do you want to tell me what’s going on?”

John’s expression shifted from fake to nervously confident.

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“Don’t play coy with me. I know you’re here to turn yourself in, but there’s something you’re not telling me. Isn't there?”

“What makes you feel that way?”

“Because there’s always something they don’t say,” Roberto replied. “We can do this the easy way or the hard way.”

He lifted the edge of the napkin slightly, just enough for John to see the gun underneath.

John’s body tensed.

Roberto smiled. His hunch had been correct. John was unarmed and, judging by his reaction, he didn’t want a public confrontation.

“Well,” said John, “since you know who I am, you also know that I’m not an experienced field operative. This is my first mission. I usually work in the economics division.”

“So does that mean you can at least calculate a good tip?”

John scoffed. “I would have if the service hadn’t ended on such a sour note.”

“Well,” said Roberto with a smirk, “I’m sorry you feel that way. But it’s time for you to come to the back and resolve that negative experience.”

John was clearly sweating, visibly nervous. He hesitated to stand, but Roberto stepped closer and pressed the barrel of the gun into John’s side.

John winced. Roberto frowned. He hadn’t shoved the weapon that hard. He poked John’s ribs again, and once more, John flinched.

“Watch it,” John hissed. “I’ll go. Just stop poking me with that thing.”

Roberto’s eyes locked onto the spot. John is injured. It all made sense now.

There’s only so long a seriously wounded agent can operate without seeking help. And in John's case, someone unseasoned in fieldwork, he must have cracked sooner than most.

“Let’s get you checked out,” said Roberto. “Enough of the games.”

John stood, but he didn’t move.

“Well?” Roberto snapped. “What are you waiting for? Do you want me to shoot you for real? You know I’ll get away with it.”

John let out a slow, deep sigh. “I guess not.”

John took a step—

BAM!

A loud sound exploded from the painting on the wall.

A figure came crashing through it and landed directly onto a table. Plates shattered, pasta and wine flew through the air, and guests screamed. Startled, both John and Roberto jumped back at the chaos. A blonde woman with piercing green eyes and a duffel bag strapped to her shoulder quickly stood, gun drawn, and fired back at the hole in the wall where the painting had been.

More screams filled the room as bullets zipped past diners. Some dove to the floor while others bolted for the exit.

Shots came back from the wall. It was a shootout between their backroom and whoever the hell this woman was.

“What the hell?” Roberto shouted. The woman kept firing, then sprinted straight toward Roberto and John. Roberto froze. His body locked up. For a moment, he was a deer in headlights.

It happened so fast. Before he could react, the woman had reached them, yanked John by the collar, and pressed a gun to his head.

“Back up!” she yelled. “Get away!”

Roberto snapped out of his trance and tossed the napkin aside, now gripping his gun openly.

All around him, the staff drew their weapons, aiming them directly at the woman.

Dammit, thought Roberto. What the hell is happening?

Not only had she taken John hostage, but their entire cover was blown. The Russos, the biggest mob they were tracking, would never set foot in this place again.

“Who are you?” Roberto asked.

“Shut up!” the woman yelled. “You’ll never catch me!”

John turned his head slightly. “What are you doing?”

“Shut up!” she snapped at him. “Shut up or I’ll kill you right now!”

She shoved the gun harder against his temple.

“Don’t shoot!” yelled Roberto. “Don’t kill him!”

She suddenly stopped and looked around at everyone’s faces. Then the woman’s lips curved into a slight smile. She chuckled softly.

“Oh,” she said mockingly, “you seem to need him alive. Is he special to you?”

“Drop the weapon,” said Roberto. “You are clearly surrounded.”

In a flash, several agents dressed in business-casual suits came rushing to the front of the building near the main exit. A man with salt-and-pepper hair, Paul Figueroa, emerged from behind the blockade.

“You there,” Figueroa said. “Let the man go!”

“No!” the woman screamed. She spun around and began backing up toward a wall, still holding John at gunpoint.

“This is insane,” John said, eyes darting nervously. “What do you think you’re going to accomplish by doing it this way? Are you insane?”

“Shut up,” she said. “Say another word, and I’ll blow a hole in your leg! Still alive, but it’ll hurt like hell.”

John gulped and went silent. Then, to everyone’s shock, including John’s, she licked the side of his face like it was chocolate ice cream. This woman was clearly beyond the reasoning of this world.

“Looks like I’ve got myself a golden ticket,” she said with a grin. “Here’s what’s going to happen. I’m going to walk out of here, and you’re not going to follow me. Or your golden goose here gets carved.”

“You can’t do that,” Roberto said.

“You mad? Even better,” she said. “I hope you can chase as well as you threaten. I hope the CIA isn’t all bark and no bite.”

She flicked the side of her handgun and then fired a round into the ceiling. Roberto stepped to move.

“Wait,” Figueroa interjected. “Roberto,” he said sharply, “stand down.”

“What?” Roberto asked, stunned.

“You heard me. Stand down.”

Roberto reluctantly lowered his gun, and the other agents followed suit.

“That’s more like it! Now we’re going to do this nice and easy.”

She began slowly moving John toward the back of the restaurant.

Roberto smirked to himself. She’s trapped, he thought. The only thing back there is the alleyway. It’s easy to cover. There’s nothing but trash and a few parked locked cars. No way she gets far. Might as well allow her to fail.

“I’d love to say this has been fun,” the woman said, “but it really hasn’t.”

She kicked open the back door and ran outside with John. As soon as she moved, so did the agents. They rushed to the rear exit, but when they tried to open the door, it didn’t budge.

“What the hell?” one agent dressed as a waiter exclaimed.

“It’s not moving!”

“What do you mean it’s not moving?” Roberto said.

“It’s stuck or something,” the agent replied, struggling with the handle.

“Move, move, move!” he yelled. He tried kicking the door open, but every second wasted tightened her lead.

How could this have happened?

SCREECH!

“No way,” Roberto whispered to himself in disbelief. He looked out the front entrance and caught a glimpse of it. A red Ferrari. One of their decoy vehicles and she had stolen it. It was only for a moment, but in the passenger seat, he saw John grinning as they sped away.

Roberto and the rest of the agents sprinted to the front of the building just in time to see the Ferrari speeding down the road, windows up, engine roaring. He looked down the alley to see a dumpster in front of the back door. No way she could’ve done that. An accomplice, maybe? But who?

Figueroa pointed urgently. “Someone stop that vehicle! Alert local authorities! Shut her down!”

“There’s no time!” Roberto yelled. He spotted a passing motorcyclist, threw open his coat, and flashed his badge.

“CIA!” he screamed.

The motorcyclist looked confused and muttered something in Italian. Roberto didn’t wait to understand him. He shoved the man off the bike, mounted it, and revved the engine.

“What are you doing?” Figueroa asked.

“What I was born to do,” Roberto said, and took off after the red Ferrari.

“Follow him!” Figueroa shouted to the rest of the team.

Roberto sped down the road, trying to close the distance between him and the speeding Ferrari. But it was way too fast. The woman drove like a maniac, weaving across lanes with no regard for anyone.

She’s crazy, Roberto thought. She doesn’t care who she hits, as long as she gets away!

The red Ferrari blasted through a red light, nearly mowing down a group of pedestrians. Roberto gritted his teeth. He had to stop it now.

He accelerated hard, weaving between two cars that had halted in the middle of the intersection. Up ahead, the Ferrari clipped a cyclist. The man flew backward, landing safely, but his bicycle soared into the air. It was coming straight toward Roberto.

Something clicked inside him. Unlike before, he wasn’t going to freeze. He wasn’t going to let them get away. Instead of stopping to help or hesitating, he punched the throttle and ducked under the flying bicycle, just barely maintaining pursuit. As soon as he was in range, he whipped out his pistol.

Pow. Pow. Pow.

Three shots whizzed through the air. One struck the rear passenger tire. The Ferrari fishtailed wildly, spinning out of control before slamming into the side of an apartment building with a deafening crash.

Roberto’s heart surged with adrenaline and joy.

This is what I signed up for, he thought. This is the moment! My moment!

He screeched to a halt about twelve feet away from the wreck, gun trained on the vehicle.

“Get out with your hands up!” Roberto shouted.

No response.

“I said, get out!” he called again, louder.

Still nothing.

Smoke billowed from the Ferrari's hood. One wheel spun aimlessly in the air, whining against nothing. Roberto crept forward, his eyes locked onto the wreckage. No movement in the windows. No sign of life.

Cautiously, he flung open the passenger door and jumped back, ready to fire.

His heart sank.

Instead of seeing John and Mango, there was just John. More specifically, there was a blowup balloon version of him. Its fake grinning face taunted him. He immediately stabbed the balloon and yanked it out. The silver disc it was attached to skidded across the street.

Inside was a large stick that had been jammed into the steering wheel, holding it steady. Next to the gas pedal, a duffel bag had been weighed down to keep the car moving. It must have been dislodged in the crash.

He recognized it instantly. The same duffel bag that insane blonde woman had been carrying.

He unzipped it and found ten thousand dollars in cash inside.

“What the hell...” he said.

He’d been played. Masterfully. Like a violin in an orchestra. Just then, backup arrived. Figueroa ran up behind him.

“Did you get them?” he asked. “Where are they?”

Roberto’s face turned red with embarrassment. He straightened his jacket, cleared his throat.

“Sir,” he said. “I think we just made a huge mistake.”

********************************************************

Speeding down the highway in a blue Ferrari...

Mango and John laughed, their hair whipping in the wind. The top was down, and the engine roared.

“That was some performance,” said John. “Though the face licking was a bit much.”

“I had to sell it,” said Mango. “And don’t act like you didn’t like me licking you.”

John smirked. “I thought I told you not to take any money.”

She shrugged. “Well, it went to a good cause. Us.”

“How did you get them to not follow us directly out the door?” John asked. “Someone fired at you and made everyone duck when you jumped out of the painting! You got away while being shot at? Then they didn’t even follow us through the back door! What did you do? Catch a break from the Grim Reaper and strike a deal for another day?”

Mango scratched her head. “Something like that,” she said.

She wasn’t sure if she should tell John that Bullock had survived. She didn’t want him to worry. They had to stay focused. Besides, she had just finished lecturing him about lying to her about the CIA. Was she really about to deceive him again?

Would their relationship be based on half-truths and omissions?

“I met someone in their holding cell who helped me,” she said carefully.

“Really?” John asked. “Who was it?”

Mango gulped. “Do you remember being on Peter’s boat? One of the people there. I knew them. That person helped me by returning fire and pushing a dumpster behind us to block the door. It gave us just enough time to hack the car and get away.”

“Oh, snap,” said John. “Damn. You really are one lucky lady.”

They sat in silence for a moment. “I love you,” said John.

Mango giggled nervously. “Why did you say that?”

“Because,” said John, “I do. Only someone as amazing as you could be yourself. And I thank you for letting me catch a glimpse… I love you for it.”

Mango started to sweat. She felt as though her heart was about to leap out of her throat. The truth was dancing on the edge of her lips like spice. She let out a deep sigh. She hadn’t lied, not entirely, but she hadn’t told the full truth either.

If John knew Bullock had survived, there was a real chance he’d change their plans, maybe even try to take him out. Worse, if he found out she had partnered with Bullock, he might lose all faith in her.

God forbid he should spiral worrying about his past.

Now wasn’t the time to cause stress. She would protect it from him so he could complete his goals. She wouldn't let any obstacle get in his way. Because she loved him too.

She’d tell him the full story sometime later.

For now, she stuck her hand out the window, letting the wind whip through her fingers. She moved her arm up and down, letting her palm glide through the waves of air like a surfer on wind currents.

She and John had just robbed the CIA and gotten away clean. Scott-free. Robbing the government for jewels with a man she loved felt like a dream. She could get used to this.

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[Mission complete! Data XP gained!]

[Processing...]

[Skill level increased!]

[Shadow Step (1) → Shadow Step (2)]

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