First Assignment

I guess the quietest sounds can signal disaster.

The thought entered Broc’s mind almost against his will. He hadn’t been fast enough, and the tiny vial of liquid fell to the grimy bathroom floor at his feet. The glass shattered with a profoundly dainty chime.

His wide eyes went fuzzy as he bent in the cramped compartment to retrieve the vial, careful not to spear himself on the syringe in his other hand. The rattling of the train could be blamed, but his caution had arrived too late, pushed out by his nerves and overconfidence. The glass was shattered, its contents spilled and useless. Despite this fact, he turned the largest remaining shard in his hand, his lower jaw shaking. He dropped it again in surprise as his earpiece crackled to life.

“You all set?” The voice was barely intelligible among the static, like Broc was listening to someone using a radio from the 1920’s.

“Shit.” Brok said as he retrieved the vial again. He shoved it into the trash receptacle, shoving it below some used paper towels.

“Shit? That’s not what I want to hear.”

Brock cleared his throat, “Uh, sorry.”

“What? You aren’t taking a shit are you? Damn of all the times for your IBS to flare up –”

“I don’t have IBS. I told you that.” Broc remembered the syringe and pushed it into the receptacle as well.

The voice paused a beat before it responded. The levity in the voice had evaporated. “Broc? Report.”

Broc looked at his reflection in the grimy mirror. Ragged blonde locks stuck out from beneath his baseball cap. His eyes were red and hollow. Scared.

“I’m fine.”

“Is it ready? Make sure to keep the vial and syringe on you until you’re a good distance from the train station.

“Shit,” Broc said again. He reached back into the trash and started to rummage. Sure enough, the syringe stuck into the knuckle of his thumb. “Shit!”

The voice in his ear elevated in volume. “Broc. I really need you to talk to me. The Artichoke won’t be happy if you fuck this up.”

He shoved the items in the leather case he had found them in - taped under his seat. 42C. The case slid into his pocket as the image in the mirror caught his eye again. Were those tears now? “Um. . .” his voice shook, “The vial is broken. Uh, compromised. Over.”

The pause was longer than he would have hoped. “What’s your plan B?”

His eyes shut, squeezing out a fresh set of tears. “Uh. . .” breath fogged up the mirror. “It’s fine. Plan B.” he grunted, “over.”

“Yes, what is plan B? Tell me now, dude, my ass is on the line here, too.”

Frustration replaced the shudder. “I know, Cauli. Just shut up and let me think.”

Exasperation filled his ear. “You didn’t have a plan B. You really fucked this up. You know, it’s really shocking how stupid a guy –”

Broc tore the earpiece from his ear and put it in his pocket. The rattle of the train grew louder, no longer muffled. He opened the door to the bathroom, stepping past a nerdy guy in glasses who had been waiting.

“Everything ok, son?” the man asked.

“Yeah,” Broc said without turning. He marched back to his seat and settled in with a huff. His brain swirled, attempting to find an option. Sunshine shone in from the window, passing poles creating a slow strobe effect.

A suitcase? Too obvious.

A knife? He would have to find one - and he was on a deadline now.

A shoe? No, not hard enough. An involuntary gasp entered his throat. What about the shoelace? He bent down, inspecting his shoes. His laces were worn and old. Would they hold? He could use both to make sure. But what about the people around?

A kid walked past with a bag of chips. Could he poison his food with something? He sighed. No - poison was plan A.

He rubbed his hands on his jeans, attempting to dry them.

“Son?” It was the nerdy guy. He had finished in the bathroom.

Broc’s brow furrowed. “What?”

The man leaned in. The expression on his face reminded Broc of his teachers in school. Disappointed. “Son, were you doing drugs in the bathroom?”

“Huh?” Broc replied much louder than he had intended.

The man held up half of the vial, apparently retrieved from the bathroom floor. “I found this. You are clearly out of sorts.” He eyed Broc’s sweaty hands and reddened eyes.

“I wasn’t.”

The man sighed. “Listen, a child could have cut themselves on this glass.”

Broc huffed like an ox, trying to keep his temper under control. “It’s not mine, dude. Get out of my face.”

The nerdy guy regarded him for a moment, then seemed to decide it wasn’t worth his time to discipline Broc further and stepped further down the train. Broc watched him go, his expression a mix of terror and fury. He forced himself to soften his features when he noticed a half a dozen faces staring at him.

Way to fly under the radar.

He replaced the earpiece. “-- Broc. Please. Come in.” Cauli sounded annoyed but also worried. It wasn’t like her.

“I’m here.”

“FINALLY.”

“Sorry.”

“Yeah, so tell me what’s going on.”

“I’m back at my seat. I’m thinking.”

“Back at your seat? Talking to yourself? Wow you really are terrible at this.”

“Shut up and help me.” Broc hissed.

“What the hell do you want me to do?”

He looked up at the luggage rack, feeling exhausted. What could Cauli do? It was a fair question. “Just remind me which seat it is.”

“Holy god.”

“Just tell me.”

“It’s seat 3A. In first class. The front of the train.”

“First class. OK.”

“Right. It is where movie stars ride.”

“Right.”

“If movie stars took shitty trains into the city in the middle of the day instead of limos and party buses.”

“I’d rather be in a limo now.”

“Well we might be in one soon if you can pull this off. But it isn’t looking good. I just hope my shitty car can keep working until I find a new field guy.”

“This can work.”

“No it can’t. It was a long shot with the poison.” Broc didn’t answer right away. Cauli’s voice softened. “What are you gonna do?”

The strobe effect from things outside the window increased. Broc turned to see more buildings being passed. The train would arrive soon. “I’m going to. . . Go to first class.”

“And?”

“I’m gonna go to first class.”

Broc stood up and started to push forward. He had to step over a kid playing with toys in the aisle. Gross.

He passed the double set of doors leading to the next car, passing the bathroom he had come out of. The next car, and the following two, were all identical to his own. Three seats on the right and two on the left with a narrow aisle between. They had to shove as many ticket-buying cattle in the train as they could, after all.

The next car was the eating area. “Broc, just talk me through this.” Cauli sounded different. There was a gentle quality in her voice that Broc hadn’t heard. The next car was the first class car. The sign didn’t say that, of course. It said “Business Class”. He squeezed himself into a dining booth and took some deep breaths, calming himself. He removed his hat to move his hair back underneath it. There was a lady standing by a register. She was bored, well past the ‘hi there what can I get for you?’ stage of customer service. She was looking at her phone.

“What, you worried about me?”

“Yep.”

“Oh.”

“I just want the assignment to be done and successful.”

“Yeah.”

“It’s our first one. We will be doing this kind of stuff all the time soon. I’m sure you’re nervous.” Broc didn’t answer. “Maybe you can get him after he leaves the train?”

“You know I can’t. It has to be on the train.”

She sighed. “That’s dumb.”

“That’s the job.”

They sat in silence for several minutes. Broc alternated between wiping his hands and adjusting his hat.

“Train arriving in six minutes.” Cauli said. Her voice had become a whisper, devoid of hope. “Artichoke is connecting for an update.”

“Broccoli, update.” The clipped words came before Broc could react. The anxiety he was feeling deepened, twisting his heart and stomach.

He coughed. “Closing in.”

A few moments passed. “Make sure it’s done.” A click signified the disconnection.

“Train arriving in five minutes.”

Broc sighed. “I’m going in.”

He stood and entered the first of two doors to the first class car. Squinting through the glass on the second door, he counted the heads of the seven people within. He identified the man sitting in 3A. White hair covered the head, impressive for a man his age. Not only that, but he didn’t seem to be slouching, either. Broc sighed. He had hoped this 72-year-old man would have been smaller, more sickly.

“Four minutes.”

Broc turned his hat and reached for the door handle.

A sharp pain stung him in the side of the neck. He flung his body to the side, but arms were gripping him. Strong arms. Broc swung an elbow back, connecting with the stomach of his attacker. He was rewarded with a grunt, but no room to maneuver as he had hoped.

The stinging sensation stopped as something plastic clattered to the ground. Broc looked down. A syringe. Not his. Or was it?

The sting was replaced by a feeling of warmth. Strangely, he felt it in his fingers first. Next, his legs seemed to give way beneath him. A hand clamped over his mouth.

“Three minutes.”

Eyes drooping, Broc felt his muscles give way and relax. The bathroom door opened and he was pulled inside. With a grunt, his attacker sat him on the toilet. The nerdy man that had asked Broc about drugs stood there. He adjusted his glasses and looked at Broc’s pupils carefully. “That’s good.” The man reached over to retrieve the dropped syringe and closed the bathroom door, leaving them alone. Broc couldn’t move, his arms non-responsive.

The man set the syringe on the sink and pulled out a length of rubber tubing and wrapped it roughly around Broc’s arm. “Like I said, you shouldn’t do drugs.”

“Two minutes. Update, please.”

“You. . .”

The man grunted, “Yep, me.” he pulled a few more items out and placed them in Broc’s pockets. Another vial? Was that a spoon?

The announcement came over the loudspeaker, announcing the arrival of the train. The man steadied himself as the train slowed dramatically. Broc didn’t feel the change. Why was the light so bright in here? He squeezed his eyes shut.

“One minute. Talk to me, Broc!” Cauli’s voice was frantic in his ear.

The man pulled the syringe from the sink and inserted the needle into Broc’s arm. He stood straight, a smile on his face. “Well, that should be everything. I’ll be sure to give Artichoke your regards.”

The man left. Just like that.

The train stopped.

“Broc. Is it done? Broc. Come, on. Update now!”

“I’m. . . sorry.”

“What? Broc speak up.”

“Steph. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t. . . you can’t call me that.” her voice broke, “What’s happening?

He couldn’t answer. Vertigo overwhelmed him as he died, his body slumping against the wall.