Spycraft 101: Keets & Berkley

Author's Note - This non-erotic story is part of the 750 Word Project 2023

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My parents warned that an overactive imagination would get me into trouble. Their endless badgering forced me to adopt a second persona, a Lacy that could focus on getting the hard work done and even make a few casual friends. That Lacy was likable, dependable, but unremarkable.

The world of espionage fascinates me with its sneaky, sophisticated contests of data gathering. I love learning how operatives go about their craft, tapping phone lines, following informants, seduction of the unsuspecting and eliminating prized targets. Spies are the smartest, most resourceful, and likely sexiest people in any scenario.

My attributes pale in comparison, but I'm observant — one skill that operatives need to survive. Well that and a good escape plan. So, I look for exits and signs of danger wherever I go. Nevermind that mine is a life of general non-excitement.

I'm late at work one Friday because a project is due and Asshole Joel left without submitting his code for QA. Get everything tidy then rush to catch the last crowded bus, which puts me sitting beside Suit-Guy. I don't mind. He's cute, like a young Ewan McGregor with sharp glasses.

Suit-Guy looks educated, but I question his street-smarts. This route goes through rough neighborhoods. People don't dress fancy, and he sticks out. He's not even savvy enough to wear a plain coat over his tailored attire or to pocket that high-end smartphone.

A couple whispering goons sneak glances from the back. Shit. This guy's gonna get mugged. I just know it.

Bus slows as we approach Culver. Suit-Guy stands, slipping into the aisle. Goons also get up, but he's oblivious to what's coming his way.

This stop is across from Garson's Grocery. I know this area well. Possibility sparks an idea. I follow Suit-Guy, calculating how long it will take for the goons to disembark and us to reach our destination. It'll be close, especially if traffic or Suit-Guy proves problematic.

Move fast to catch him off-balance.

"Come here," I say and grab Suit-Guy's hand, pulling him into the street.

"What're you doing?" he blusters, but oncoming cars encourage him not to fight the forward motion, and we dash to the opposite side. "I don't know you, Miss. Kindly release me," he politely protests.

"Hush! Trouble's coming."

Suit-Guy tracks my gaze to the sizable men struggling to get through the traffic. His eyes widen and he freezes.

Drag him into Garson's low-lit alley. Reach a certain hidey-hole filled with wooden pallets stacked on wheeled casters. Squeeze to the back then cram in behind the stacks. This is scarier than I imagined. We've got good cover, but no escape if they find us. There's just no time to find better.

His tense body is pressed up against mine. Our hearts gallop, making hearing and breathing more difficult. We take in long, quiet breaths, releasing air slowly.

The pursuers stop, exchanging curses before moving on in search.

Minutes pass until we speak.

Suit-Guy asks, "Who are you?"

"Nobody," I insist, wiggling out of our jam.

He follows, taking my arm. "No. Really. Who—?"

Back out of his grasp. "Be careful next time. Wear more sensible clothes for this neighborhood."

Flag down a taxi, giving the driver my address. Suit-Guy watches dumbfounded as the car pulls away. Expect to never see him again.

Saturday breakfast is disturbed by someone at my door. Check the camera to see Suit-Guy with a bag in hand from a local bakery.

Dammit. He tracked me through the taxi company.

Open the door with a loud sigh.

"Uh, hi. Lacy Keets, right?" He holds out his free hand. "Bennett Berkley."

Frown at him. "So?"

Hand drops. He offers the bag next, which I don't accept.

"Didn't want thanks or a stalker. Please leave."

Bennett's smile and confidence deflate. "This isn't going well."

Consider shutting the door in his face, but he's cute when flustered.

"My food's getting cold."

"Sorry. Can I come in?"

"No."

He starts to recall the incident as if I hadn't participated. "Miss Keets," he concludes, "I had an important delivery to make last night. Those men were after that item."

"So, you're a spy?"

"Yes. Well, no. I'm an analyst mainly, CIA, and my superior wants to meet you."

Excitement and curiosity swarm my mind. Manage to calm, admitting, "I'm still nobody."

He offers a soft shrug. "We need new faces, raw talent. You're perfect."

No one's called me perfect before. Take the bag, allowing him to step inside.

"Tell me more, Mr. Berkley."