Flash Fiction Friday - International Man of Mystery

“I see the iron curtain had well and truly fallen before I came in,” he laughed.

“If you ever say that again, they will never find your corpse,” she replied with a fractional smile, her accent flowing with exotic promise. He smiled too, but then something in her eyes told him that he wasn't supposed to find this funny. “Now, Mr. Secret Agent, we were discussing my fee.”

“Two hundred thousand euros and all the borscht you can eat,” he said, his mispronunciation of the Russian word grating at her ears.

“I've warned you once about jokes, Mr. Spy,” she said, not smiling this time.

“You're in my country, in my safe-house, flashing your tits at me, and you dare make threats,” he said, anger rising. He wasn't used to being out of control, this one.

“I never threaten,” she said evenly, shifting slightly to expose her breast more fully. “And the reason I am, as you say, 'flashing my tits' is because I have found no better method of catching stupid men off-guard.”

He never saw the gun she had concealed, moved into place as she exposed herself. He heard the gun, but only for a fraction of a second, long enough for his brain to register surprise, his lips to part slightly, eyes to widen minutely. He definitely didn't hear the second silenced shot, as the first bullet between his eyes had removed any possibility of that.

She stood looking down at him for a moment, straightening her coat, concealing herself again. “It's a pity; you looked well-hung,” she said, looking down. But she made no move to check as she opened the window and whispered, “I'll need a pickup, ten minutes, the usual place.” The words winged away to other ears, as did she to other places.

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300 on the nose, according to my count.  I had a devil of a time with this one, mostly because I didn't want to write, I wanted to ogle.  Also because I'm stressed and busy and so on.  However, Flash Fiction Friday accepts no excuses and brooks no lateness.  It is a harsh taskmaster.  Which might be right up some of your alleys, in which case, get over there and be slaves to the terrible ticking of the clock and the counting of the words.  There's a fetish there, I just know it.

And on a personal note, I wouldn't have seen the gun either for the same reason, so spare a kind thought for the poor nameless agent who gave his life to see that delicious breast.  Although if he'd played his cards right, I bet he could have fucked her.  Poor, stupid man.