Beep! Beep! Beep!
At 6 a.m. sharp, the alarm clock annoyed its owner awake. He slowly opened his eyes, and allowed the beeping to continue until it became unbearable. He sat up and gently pressed the snooze button. He then swung his legs over the side of the bed, reached for his cane and stood up.
As soon as he was vertical, he went through a mundane morning routine: get dressed, make breakfast, brush teeth, clean dishes, clean an already clean house, punch the speed bag and hanging heavy bag in the basement, and sift through the mail.
It was boring, but necessary. The man remembered a time when his life wasn't on a set schedule, where it was fraught with danger and the great unknown.
His past was completely unpredictable.
Nowadays, it was entirely predictable.
He walked outside into the brisk Maine air to take out the trash and gather the mail. A neighbor greeted him as he walked past with his dalmatian in tow. The man grunted in reply and limped back into his pink house.
He sighed, sitting down in his favorite chair and skimmed through the stack of letters. When he got to the end of the stack, the corner of his mouth lifted and he immediately reached for his phone.
"May I have your social?" an operator asked a few ringtones later.
"Five four three, six six, two two nine one. Pension services please." he answered.
"Thank you, Mr. Gold," the operator said. "Please hold for a representative."
A few clicking noises and thousands of miles away in a place called Kansas City, a young woman with dark brown, wavy hair and bright blue eyes sat in a cubicle, reading a trashy romance novel as she answered her ringing phone.
"Hi, this is Belle," she said in a monotone.
"Hey, it's Frank Gold," a distinctly accented voice greeted.
Belle sat up a little bit straighter and smiled. "Hey! What's going on?"
"Nothing terribly exciting. I'm calling because I didn't get my check…again," he said.
"Oh, jeez, are you kidding?" she dog-eared her book and immediately reached for a pad and pen. "I can't believe they haven't worked this out yet! I'll make sure they get you another one out today,"
"No matter," he muttered. Gold ripped up the pension check in front of him with a smile.
"I'm so sorry, it won't happen again," she still tried to make amends.
Gold felt his smile widen. He felt guilty tricking her like he did, but listening to the way Belle talked, all the little nuances in her speech…it was utterly breathtaking.
"No, it does matter. Obviously you worked for the government for a long time, you deserve any penny you can get," she insisted.
"Speaking of matters…how's that rose coming along?" Belle instantly changed the subject.
Gold glanced to his right, staring at a tiny terracotta pot with a single rose stem set in the middle of it.
"I think it's starting to bud," he replied.
"That's great! See, I told you could grow something if you put your mind to it," he could hear the smile in her voice.
"Indeed you were right," he agreed. "How's your day going?" he wondered.
Belle groaned and leaned her forehead against her hand.
"That good, eh?"
"It's just so boring! It's an endless routine of blah," she sighed. Belle touched a postcard reverently.
"All I want to do is travel, to go somewhere like…Chile. Have you ever been to Chile?" she wondered.
"I have," Gold said.
Belle sat up a little bit taller. "Really? What was it like?"
"Mountains…there were mountains," he mumbled.
She waited for him to say more about the South American country, but, as usual, the mysterious Frank Gold wasn't very forthcoming.
"…that's it?" she asked.
"It was…dark when I went," he answered.
Belle raised an eyebrow, but reluctantly let the subject drop. On the other side of the phone, he slapped his forehead.
"It was dark"?! Christ, that sounded idiotic! he berated himself.
Belle glanced up from her book's cover and saw her supervisor glare at her with thin lips.
"Listen, I gotta go, Sylvia's glaring at me again," she said quietly.
"Alright, I'll talk to you —" he started to say.
Belle hung up the phone and glared right back at Sylvia. "What?!" she demanded.
Sylvia shook her head disapprovingly, then turned to leave. Belle rolled her eyes and went back to reading.
"— later, then…" he finished quietly. He set his phone back in it's stand and ran a hand through his shoulder-length hair.
Gold stood up from his chair and went through the rest of his day in the same, mundane routine.
A week later, Gold received another pension check. With a wry smile, he ripped up the check, and called pension services. He and Belle went through their customary business before promptly starting a more casual conversation.
"So, uh, what are you reading this time?" Gold asked. He knew that she was a great lover of books, and she was currently enamored with five dollar romance novels.
He heard Belle laugh and sigh wistfully. "God, it's terrible! It's about this fashion designer and his super-model girlfriend, and they're recruited by the CIA to help stop a string of assassinations during the Milan Spring Fashion Shows,"
Gold coughed in an attempt to cover a laugh. He knew for a fact an agency like the CIA would never do anything like recruit a fashion designer, or a model for that matter. Not unless they needed a huge, just barely believable cover-up.
"What's it called?" he reached for a pen and some paper, but instead settled on a scrap of envelop.
"It's called 'Love's Savage Secret' by Zelena Green," she replied with a giggle. "Everything about it is so delightfully cheesy,"
He wrote down the title and glanced at his side table. It was stacked with similarly titled books, all poorly written by the same lovesick woman.
Gold set his pen down and took a deep breath. An idea occurred to him the last time they had talked, and, after being at war with himself over it, decided that that moment was as good as any to bring it up.
"Listen, Belle, I'm going to be in Kansas City next week," he said as casually as he could.
Belle fell silent on the other line. Gold wasn't sure how to react, and waited for her to say something.
"Belle?" he asked a few moments later.
"I'm here," she replied distantly.
He wasn't sure if her answer was a good sign or not.
"So…what do you think?" he wondered.
There was a long moment of silence before Belle talked again. "I…I'm not sure it would be a good idea," she answered. "I would be an adventure, but not the adventure I need,"
Gold felt himself deflate. He knew that Belle would not go for the idea — why would she; she's incredible and far too good for him — but he had something he never had for anyone else: hope.
"I understand." he said.
Belle bit her lip, unsure what else to say. She saw Sylvia stalking towards her and figured that the conversation was as good as over.
"Goodbye, Frank." she said, and pressed the end call button. Belle removed her headset and walked out of her cubicle, passing Sylvia and telling her that she was going to take an early lunch.
Gold still had his phone plastered to his ear, listening to the disconnected call tone. After several minutes of self-deprecating reflection, he hung up the phone, stood up, and went through the rest of his day.
When the day drew to an end, he flipped through the pages of Love's Savage Secret with mild distaste. He wasn't entirely sure what it was about these silly books that appealed to Belle, even when she did put them down harshly. But anything in vain attempt to impress her, he would try, despite what happened when they ended their conversation.
The glowing green numbers on Gold's clock informed him that it was 3 a.m. He lay in bed wide awake, willing himself to fall back asleep. When he found that it was an impossible task, he got up out of bed and walked down the stairs to the kitchen to get a glass of water.
As soon as he reached the bottom step, his spine started to tingle. It was an old feeling he thought he had long since buried.
He lifted his cane off the ground and slowly limped towards the kitchen.
In the doorway, Gold saw a shadow, shaped like a heavily armored man. As carefully as he could, he snuck up behind him, and with the handle of his cane, hit him square in the back of the head. The shadow fell down with a grunt.
Just as Gold suspected, it alerted his presence to a team of other shadows; clearly mercenaries.
He instantly slipped back into the person he once was: a Scottish expatriate who once worked for the CIA as one of its number one assassins.
He thought he had shedded that old part of himself completely, but with unusual ease — despite his limp — he was able to disarm all five of the mercenaries.
Before they could shoot or completely draw any of their weapons, he knocked them out of their hands. He used his cane to break body parts and make it easier to bring them to unconsciousness. One man tried to plunge a syringe into his neck, but he quickly pulled him in and instead released the contents of the syringe into his attacker's own neck.
As the last man fell to the ground, he bent down and pulled a magazine from one of the men's utility belt. He limped to the kitchen, reaching for a frying pan and a bottle of olive oil. Gold turned on the stove, placed the pan on top, poured some oil, and, removing a few bullets from the magazine casing, dropped them into the pan.
After he disposed of the casing, he opened a closet door, pulled out a large black duffle bag, then headed for the door leading to the basement. Gold turned on the light and ran down the stairs. When he reached the bottom step, he grabbed a sledge hammer and dragged it to the middle of the room. With little effort, he lifted it and brought the hammer straight down, cracking the concrete floor. Quickly finding a rhythm, he broke through the two-foot thick floor, revealing a safe.
Gold turned the dial to the memorized code, opened it and pulled out the contents. He stuffed the fake passports and foreign currency into the duffle bag. The moment his bag zipped closed, he heard the bullets shoot out of the overheated pan. He looked up and smiled wryly.
Once the pan had ceased firing, he heard gunfire coming from outside of the house. From his position, it sounded like ten semiautomatics shooting up his home.
Just as I suspected. he thought to himself. He reached into the safe again and pulled out a GLOCK G41. Gold checked the magazine, then grabbed an extra one and put it in his robe pocket.
He threw the duffle bag over his shoulder, picked up his cane and decided to get rid of as many of the mercenaries as possible, then change clothes and leave his house immediately.
The gunfire continued as he walked up the stairs.
When he reached the top step, he leaned close to the door and listened. Hearing nothing, he moved his gun to his pocket, lifted his cane and slowly slipped through the door.
Gold kept his back close to the wall, quietly sidestepping and listening. He knew these were well-trained killers with countless missions under their belt. But he also knew that they were no match for him.
Feeling a creak in the wood floor, Gold immediately sprang into action. He used the handle of his cane to hook onto a mercenary's vest and pull him in. With a calculated swing, he brought the man's back to his and used the cane to choke the man. He tried to struggle, but Gold quickly lifted his cane at an angle and slammed it into his throat, causing him lose more air.
Just as the mercenary fell to the ground, more came.
His movements became a blur; one after another the men attacked and fell at his feet, killed almost immediately by either his cane, a gun or his bare hands.
By the end of it all, Gold was breathing heavily. He could feel his age catching up to him, and his knee throbbed painfully. He ran a hand through his hair as his breathing started to even out. With the aid of the wall, he went to the kitchen to down a few pain killers, then limped back up the stairs to his bedroom.
I have to get to Belle, and fast. he told himself.
Oh, God, get me out of here! Belle French thought to herself. She sat in an old mini van belonging to her date of the night, a man named Gaston DuLuc. When he pulled up outside her apartment building, she immediately removed her seat belt and got out of the car before he even stopped the car.
"Hey, aren't you going to invite me up?" Gaston asked after he parked the car and opened the door.
"No!" she said, reaching for her keys in her purse.
"But I bought you dinner!" he whined.
So? she rolled her eyes just as she got the key into the front door of the building.
Belle mumbled to herself angrily as she climbed the stairs to her apartment, going through the entire date in her mind. Once again, she went on a really, really, really bad date.
"And you live with your mother!" she said out loud, slamming her door behind her.
She threw her purse on the floor and dropped her coat down right next to it. Normally, she was impeccably clean and orderly, but at the moment, she could care less about cleanliness and wanted nothing more than to sit on her couch drinking a can of her favorite ice tea. Belle went into the kitchen just as she pulled off her sweater, revealing a lacy camisole and more cleavage than she would publicly show.
"Well, you're certainly not getting any this," she pulled open her refrigerator and grabbed the first can of Arizona tea she saw. She popped it open and guzzled it down, still mumbling to herself.
Belle walked into her living room, passing by her front door.
"Hey." a deep, apparently Scottish accented voice greeted quietly to her.
She froze in her tracks and gulped down the tea still in her throat. Ever so slowly, she turned in the direction of the voice and beheld an older man with brown hair streaked with gray, brown eyes and a gold-handled cane.
Oh. My. God.