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Chapter 1
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Travel light. One bag, bare essentials. That's what the Bureau's academy taught you. Women should carry all of their makeup, men all of their weapons. If you needed two bags, you needed to re-evaluate the meaning of essentials. My bag? Black with barely detectable dark blue highlights. Small, not much larger than an ink printer. What it holds is a thin coat, a change of clothes, a toothbrush, toothpaste, and a "pair of shoes." The Bureau set me up with a set of shoe-looking gun storage cases. They have thick, x-ray resistant soles that could, between the two of them, store a disassembled gun. They're not bad for walking, either. It's what I keep with me at all times. Just the essentials. Some argue about the toothpaste, but I like my brands.
-Jacques Lalonde, October 20th, 2010.
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The plane was small, but it had all of the things anyone would need. Loud passengers were squeezed into seats that were just a bit too small. Jacques' body fit snugly between the close armrests, pressing into his firm sides. Physical training had that effect on small clothing and seats. His eyes were closed, a tranquil look passing over his face. The only one on the plane. His ankles were crossed, a completely relaxed posture. His clothes suggested vacation, but only to those who knew him.
A loose, white undershirt was showing beneath his sky blue jacket lined with white accents. His pants were a dark blue, the rarely used pair. They were comfortable and heavy. Functional? No. Fashionable and comfortable? Yes. The shoes were the only good pair he owned. A pair of white tennis shoes. His blond hair was hanging low, and not swept to the side for once in his life. It loosely tickled the tips of his eyebrows, and he loved every minute of it. The pilots voice crackled in over a sound system that was a bit too old, groaning at the use to the audible displeasure of the passengers.
"This is your captain for today's flight," He started off, the one stewardess moving to the front of the twenty rows of seats lazily, staring blankly out into the small crowd of commuters. "We are about to begin Taxiing for our flight to the Big Apple. Please buckle yourselves in, and keep your seats up." The captain rattled off more information, which quickly became drowned out by the bickering couple behind him.
"Are you sure you'll be fine?" The wife asked the husband. She sounded to be about 25, probably newly married by the worried sound in her tone.
"Yes, honey." 26, probably an author, by the sound of it. "Look, we said that we wanted to go to New York for our Honeymoon." Called it. "I can handle one flight if that's what it takes." The sound of kissing followed, and the plane started taxiing. If Jacques had to listen to the two behind him the entire way there, he'd go mad. He opened his amber eyes and began digging in his pockets. He quickly retrieved his white iPod, and plugged his ears with the noise-canceling headphones. Everything went quiet, and the track started. He navigated around the menu for his soft rock playlist, the one he assembled for plane trips, and started up a new song.
The plane took off, and Jacques rolled his head to the left to look out the window. He was close to the front, and in a window seat. That was his preferred location for plane rides, which the flight coordinators undoubtedly knew. The Bureau could be nice to him if they wanted to, he guessed. He wasn't going to object to any niceness this late in the game.
-------
They were a quarter of the way through the flight, according to the Captain who buzzed in again to remind them just what was going on. Then, Jacques heard the most distressing sound any secret agent can ever hear in their life. The sound of a bullet being loaded into a chamber approximately two feet from your skull. It's quite a scary noise, to be honest. He looked up to see a man with sandy blond hair pointing a loaded AK-47 directly at Jacques' head. It was suppressed, as to prevent any integrity damage to the plane. That did not mean, however, that it didn't have enough foce to penetrate Jacques' skull. The man had a grizzly face, and a face that hadn't been shaved for what looked like a good few days. The men around him were all wearing black ski masks, and one was going down the aisles, poking and prodding people with his gun. They were all wearing combat clothing, aka long sleeved shirts with flak jackets and cargo pants with matching boots. Clunky and cumbersome. The one walking around apparently found who he was looking for, and reached into the inside of the man's jacket.
"I found him," he said. Thick, Russian accent. He held up an Air Marshall's badge, and threw it to the man next to Jacques. A Russia-based operation? Was Russia violating the peace treaty?
"Ah, Marshall Bryans," English accent. A Russo-Brit alliance? Maybe America had gotten to be threatening. It was a possibility. The Marshall suddenly stood up and charged the Russian man, who, in turn, traded him three bullets in his frontal cortex. A man in the back started screaming at a woman to stay down with a distinctly South African accent. The smell of gunsmoke filled the plane, and a baby started to cry.
South Africa, Britain, and Russia. Okay, maybe a trans-continental pact against one of the largest military forces on Earth. A quiet take down. That could happen. It was rather logical.
"Shut that baby up!" the man in the back of the plane said. A Mexican accent.
Okay, so Mexico, Russia, Britain, and South Africa all teamed up to- Jacques stopped himself mid-thought. He gave up with the conspiracy theory and moved on. Suddenly, the earphones sputtered and spat out a new message.
"Well, Jacques," His boss's deep voice cut into his music. The Bureau probably programmed this message in in case something went south. "The sound of gunfire reached the iPod, and it's now playing the sweet sound of my voice as a recorded track. You've probably encountered some kind of danger, or you're watching an Action Movie. If that's the case, then please use the Konami code, replaces A, B, and Start with three presses of the select button." Always a video game reference with him. "This will reset the recording and its parameters. But, we at the Bureau realize that you're on vacation, and we appreciate that. Just file a report when you can about the situation, and we'll let you get back to your well-deserved rest. That is all for now. Goodbye, Jacques. And have a nice stay." The rock burst back in, and Jacques sighed slightly.
The man next to him had been rattling off something about hijacking the plane, blah, blah, blah. Basically, bad men doing bad things. The baby behind Jacques still hadn't quieted, so the English man had aimed his barrel down at the baby's mother temporarily. Jacques slipped his fingers up into his sleeves, and pulled in a release strap on the inside of his jacket. It let down a small, black, metal cylinder coated in rubber no bigger in height than a soda can, and no bigger around than a flashlight. Jacques readied himself to leap, preparing for the right moment. The English man groaned and lowered the barrel of his gun by barely more than an inch to deal with the woman. More than enough of an opportunity.
Jacques lunged at the man, and twisted the top of the black cylinder. It extended into what Jacques referred to as his beat stick. It was a telescoping, rubberized piece of metal designed to incapacitate, but not kill, enemies. He swung downwards, and smacked the barrel of the AK-47 directly into the ground. The man let out a sudden release of bullets, spraying the ground with holes. Jacques spun on his heel, and made for the Russian who had been patrolling for the Air Marshall at the very front of the plane. The Russian was more quick to respond, and tried to fire off a few rounds into Jacques' shoulder as he ran, but the spy was faster than the terrorist. He slid downwards, doing a home-run style slide to take out his legs. As the man fell, scared, towards Jacques, he received an elbow to his solar plexus and went down, gasping for air. Jacques hit him with his beat stick to ensure that he would stay down. The South African and the Mexican both began shouting at the same time, but Jacques had a good idea what they meant.
He dropped his beat stick, and fell to his knees. He put them down on the ground, right next to the unconscious Russian. The two began to approach him, and Jacques' hand found the hidden knife under his left sleeve. The South African put his gun barrel under Jacques' chin, and lifted his face up. Bad move. Jacques' left hand moved fast, and he quickly slashed upwards, cutting the man's stomach and chest, forcing him to double over. Jacques quickly kneeled and grabbed the man's head. A look of shock crossed his face, and the agent brought his face down, quickly, onto the prepared knee. A resounding crunch filled the small cavern of the plane, and he quickly stood up. The Mexican man held his gun threateningly towards Jacques, who was pointing his knife equally threateningly.
"G-Get back!" the man said hastily. Jacques groaned.
"Really? And end up like your friends?" Jacques gestured towards the three unconscious men behind him. The man didn't waver, but rather jabbed his gun towards Jacques. He gauged the distance at five feet, and nudged his foot under the beat stick laying on the ground.
"Get back!" The terrorist enforced. Jacques shrugged and went to lower himself, moving his right foot backwards and razing his hands up. With a quick movement, he kicked the beat stick with all of his force, which attracted the frightened man's attention, he pointed his gun at it, but it sailed for his crotch and hit it dead-on. The man dropped the gun onto the ground and grabbed at his groin. Jacques ran up to him as fast as he could and retrieved his beat stick from under the man's ribcage. Before the man could even get a clear look at Jacques, the rubberized metal struck his temple and forced him unconscious.
About thirty calm seconds passed before one of the passengers spoke.
"Who the hell are you?" asked the man who had been sitting behind Jacques. The spy turned to face him and stuttered. "T-Travis Tellerman."
Great.
Now he had to keep up a fake identity until he landed.
Chapter 1
------------
Travel light. One bag, bare essentials. That's what the Bureau's academy taught you. Women should carry all of their makeup, men all of their weapons. If you needed two bags, you needed to re-evaluate the meaning of essentials. My bag? Black with barely detectable dark blue highlights. Small, not much larger than an ink printer. What it holds is a thin coat, a change of clothes, a toothbrush, toothpaste, and a "pair of shoes." The Bureau set me up with a set of shoe-looking gun storage cases. They have thick, x-ray resistant soles that could, between the two of them, store a disassembled gun. They're not bad for walking, either. It's what I keep with me at all times. Just the essentials. Some argue about the toothpaste, but I like my brands.
-Jacques Lalonde, October 20th, 2010.
-------
The plane was small, but it had all of the things anyone would need. Loud passengers were squeezed into seats that were just a bit too small. Jacques' body fit snugly between the close armrests, pressing into his firm sides. Physical training had that effect on small clothing and seats. His eyes were closed, a tranquil look passing over his face. The only one on the plane. His ankles were crossed, a completely relaxed posture. His clothes suggested vacation, but only to those who knew him.
A loose, white undershirt was showing beneath his sky blue jacket lined with white accents. His pants were a dark blue, the rarely used pair. They were comfortable and heavy. Functional? No. Fashionable and comfortable? Yes. The shoes were the only good pair he owned. A pair of white tennis shoes. His blond hair was hanging low, and not swept to the side for once in his life. It loosely tickled the tips of his eyebrows, and he loved every minute of it. The pilots voice crackled in over a sound system that was a bit too old, groaning at the use to the audible displeasure of the passengers.
"This is your captain for today's flight," He started off, the one stewardess moving to the front of the twenty rows of seats lazily, staring blankly out into the small crowd of commuters. "We are about to begin Taxiing for our flight to the Big Apple. Please buckle yourselves in, and keep your seats up." The captain rattled off more information, which quickly became drowned out by the bickering couple behind him.
"Are you sure you'll be fine?" The wife asked the husband. She sounded to be about 25, probably newly married by the worried sound in her tone.
"Yes, honey." 26, probably an author, by the sound of it. "Look, we said that we wanted to go to New York for our Honeymoon." Called it. "I can handle one flight if that's what it takes." The sound of kissing followed, and the plane started taxiing. If Jacques had to listen to the two behind him the entire way there, he'd go mad. He opened his amber eyes and began digging in his pockets. He quickly retrieved his white iPod, and plugged his ears with the noise-canceling headphones. Everything went quiet, and the track started. He navigated around the menu for his soft rock playlist, the one he assembled for plane trips, and started up a new song.
The plane took off, and Jacques rolled his head to the left to look out the window. He was close to the front, and in a window seat. That was his preferred location for plane rides, which the flight coordinators undoubtedly knew. The Bureau could be nice to him if they wanted to, he guessed. He wasn't going to object to any niceness this late in the game.
-------
They were a quarter of the way through the flight, according to the Captain who buzzed in again to remind them just what was going on. Then, Jacques heard the most distressing sound any secret agent can ever hear in their life. The sound of a bullet being loaded into a chamber approximately two feet from your skull. It's quite a scary noise, to be honest. He looked up to see a man with sandy blond hair pointing a loaded AK-47 directly at Jacques' head. It was suppressed, as to prevent any integrity damage to the plane. That did not mean, however, that it didn't have enough foce to penetrate Jacques' skull. The man had a grizzly face, and a face that hadn't been shaved for what looked like a good few days. The men around him were all wearing black ski masks, and one was going down the aisles, poking and prodding people with his gun. They were all wearing combat clothing, aka long sleeved shirts with flak jackets and cargo pants with matching boots. Clunky and cumbersome. The one walking around apparently found who he was looking for, and reached into the inside of the man's jacket.
"I found him," he said. Thick, Russian accent. He held up an Air Marshall's badge, and threw it to the man next to Jacques. A Russia-based operation? Was Russia violating the peace treaty?
"Ah, Marshall Bryans," English accent. A Russo-Brit alliance? Maybe America had gotten to be threatening. It was a possibility. The Marshall suddenly stood up and charged the Russian man, who, in turn, traded him three bullets in his frontal cortex. A man in the back started screaming at a woman to stay down with a distinctly South African accent. The smell of gunsmoke filled the plane, and a baby started to cry.
South Africa, Britain, and Russia. Okay, maybe a trans-continental pact against one of the largest military forces on Earth. A quiet take down. That could happen. It was rather logical.
"Shut that baby up!" the man in the back of the plane said. A Mexican accent.
Okay, so Mexico, Russia, Britain, and South Africa all teamed up to- Jacques stopped himself mid-thought. He gave up with the conspiracy theory and moved on. Suddenly, the earphones sputtered and spat out a new message.
"Well, Jacques," His boss's deep voice cut into his music. The Bureau probably programmed this message in in case something went south. "The sound of gunfire reached the iPod, and it's now playing the sweet sound of my voice as a recorded track. You've probably encountered some kind of danger, or you're watching an Action Movie. If that's the case, then please use the Konami code, replaces A, B, and Start with three presses of the select button." Always a video game reference with him. "This will reset the recording and its parameters. But, we at the Bureau realize that you're on vacation, and we appreciate that. Just file a report when you can about the situation, and we'll let you get back to your well-deserved rest. That is all for now. Goodbye, Jacques. And have a nice stay." The rock burst back in, and Jacques sighed slightly.
The man next to him had been rattling off something about hijacking the plane, blah, blah, blah. Basically, bad men doing bad things. The baby behind Jacques still hadn't quieted, so the English man had aimed his barrel down at the baby's mother temporarily. Jacques slipped his fingers up into his sleeves, and pulled in a release strap on the inside of his jacket. It let down a small, black, metal cylinder coated in rubber no bigger in height than a soda can, and no bigger around than a flashlight. Jacques readied himself to leap, preparing for the right moment. The English man groaned and lowered the barrel of his gun by barely more than an inch to deal with the woman. More than enough of an opportunity.
Jacques lunged at the man, and twisted the top of the black cylinder. It extended into what Jacques referred to as his beat stick. It was a telescoping, rubberized piece of metal designed to incapacitate, but not kill, enemies. He swung downwards, and smacked the barrel of the AK-47 directly into the ground. The man let out a sudden release of bullets, spraying the ground with holes. Jacques spun on his heel, and made for the Russian who had been patrolling for the Air Marshall at the very front of the plane. The Russian was more quick to respond, and tried to fire off a few rounds into Jacques' shoulder as he ran, but the spy was faster than the terrorist. He slid downwards, doing a home-run style slide to take out his legs. As the man fell, scared, towards Jacques, he received an elbow to his solar plexus and went down, gasping for air. Jacques hit him with his beat stick to ensure that he would stay down. The South African and the Mexican both began shouting at the same time, but Jacques had a good idea what they meant.
He dropped his beat stick, and fell to his knees. He put them down on the ground, right next to the unconscious Russian. The two began to approach him, and Jacques' hand found the hidden knife under his left sleeve. The South African put his gun barrel under Jacques' chin, and lifted his face up. Bad move. Jacques' left hand moved fast, and he quickly slashed upwards, cutting the man's stomach and chest, forcing him to double over. Jacques quickly kneeled and grabbed the man's head. A look of shock crossed his face, and the agent brought his face down, quickly, onto the prepared knee. A resounding crunch filled the small cavern of the plane, and he quickly stood up. The Mexican man held his gun threateningly towards Jacques, who was pointing his knife equally threateningly.
"G-Get back!" the man said hastily. Jacques groaned.
"Really? And end up like your friends?" Jacques gestured towards the three unconscious men behind him. The man didn't waver, but rather jabbed his gun towards Jacques. He gauged the distance at five feet, and nudged his foot under the beat stick laying on the ground.
"Get back!" The terrorist enforced. Jacques shrugged and went to lower himself, moving his right foot backwards and razing his hands up. With a quick movement, he kicked the beat stick with all of his force, which attracted the frightened man's attention, he pointed his gun at it, but it sailed for his crotch and hit it dead-on. The man dropped the gun onto the ground and grabbed at his groin. Jacques ran up to him as fast as he could and retrieved his beat stick from under the man's ribcage. Before the man could even get a clear look at Jacques, the rubberized metal struck his temple and forced him unconscious.
About thirty calm seconds passed before one of the passengers spoke.
"Who the hell are you?" asked the man who had been sitting behind Jacques. The spy turned to face him and stuttered. "T-Travis Tellerman."
Great.
Now he had to keep up a fake identity until he landed.
