The Cemetery Wedding
Spy thriller flash fiction
Rain splattered on the muddy ground, the heavens pouring down as if weeping for the lost souls that littered the cemetery. Jack Carlyle wasn’t sure whether they were tears of joy or sadness, but he could not care less. He shifted his umbrella over his head, to better cover him from the pouring rain. The calming staccato of drops smacking against his umbrella was, every once in awhile, interrupted by a loud sob or a gut wrenching question of:
Jack knew why, but kept his silence. The coffin was being lowered into the ground, the national anthem accompanying it’s slow and ponderous descent into the dirt.
“….recognise that Buck was a good man,” continued the priest. He was drenched from head to toe, and shivering wildly. “He — He was a godly man, one that always put nation and God ahead of all others. His service to our country, and to all those he vowed to protect with his life, will never be forgotten.”
The Agency had already forgotten about him. Jack suspected that his framed portrait, long hung on the hallowed walls of that nondescript building, is being taken down and thrown in the fire, along with the other effects in his office. His name will be wiped from its history, a name that will long be associated with the phrase ‘fucking traitor.’
But that wasn’t why Jack was tasked with killing him in the first place. Even now, the magical words echoed in his mind, far louder than the pouring rain or peals of thunder in the distance:
“Do this, Carlyle, and your debt to us will be over. You can leave once the assignment is complete. You can finally have the life with Amanda you’ve always dreamed about. You’ll be free.”
Now, his assignment was being covered in dirt, the shovels burying Buck as quickly as it was burying his bloody past. Jack didn’t even have time to switch out of his clothes before the funeral.
Wait, that was a lie. The kill happened three days ago, plenty of time to change into a fresh set of clothes in between then and the funeral.
No, he didn’t’ change out of his clothes by choice. He wanted to keep wearing his bloody shirt, a memento of his final mission, courtesy of Buck’s exposed carotid artery when Jack cut his throat, before jamming the knife into his heart.
The shovelling done, the coffin under the ground and the last prayer uttered. Only then did the mourners started to drift away, except one.
A hand fell on his shoulder. A familiar hand. The hand that pulled his trigger for all these years. Now, it’s just another hand, harmless without it’s weapon.
“Senator,” replied Jack, without turning around. “What do you want? I’m no longer bound to you.”
“Turn around. I have something for you.”
He turned around. Senator Armstrong had a gun pressed against Amanda’s temple, her eyes pleading for his help.