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Close Call

What happens when a mysterious package shows up at your door?

By KatiePublished 3 years ago 10 min read
2
Close Call
Photo by Bas van den Eijkhof on Unsplash

Jenna couldn’t get it off her mind. When she got up this morning it had been the first thing she thought about. While she brushed her teeth she puzzled it over. On her drive to work she took not one, but two wrong turns. Her boss commented on her distraction, then commented again when she didn’t respond. Finally he sent her home early. There could be no mistakes in the lab and Jenna clearly wasn’t with it. When she got back home, she blindly went through her routine. Keys in the tray, coat on the hook. Alarm set and double checked, as if that would stop them. Curtains pulled tightly closed against the prying eyes of neighbors, and perhaps, something more sinister.

The package had arrived late in the afternoon Thursday. Expecting takeout, Jenna hadn’t thought anything of the doorbell ringing while she showered. Wrapping herself in a robe and hurriedly throwing her hair in a towel she’d puttered to the door, dripping. She opened it and instead of finding Chinese food she stared down at a plainly wrapped package. The brown paper was tied with string, neatly, a tiny bow at the top as if it were a present. There was no address, no stamps, no indication at all of where it had come from. Of course Jenna knew where it was from, knew who it was from. She’d been waiting so long for this day she had started to think it would never come. She’d picked it up gingerly, setting it on the kitchen counter with the care someone might use while handling explosives. She hadn’t unwrapped it. She had just stared at it, the room growing darker around her, the air growing colder. She had started pacing at one point, her Chinese food forgotten on the front porch. Eventually she had laid in her bed, on top of the covers, waiting for morning to come. There had been no sleep that night.

Friday morning she had drank her coffee, dressed, threw on some makeup. Then she had sat and stared some more, the seemingly benign brown package staring back at her from the counter. At one point she had reached out and run her fingers over the string, twirling the ends between her fingers.

Now, as she threw her keys in the tray and hung her coat on the hook, she knew it would be waiting for her. What she wasn’t expecting was the man that now stood in her kitchen, double checked alarms be damned. He wore a dark suit and tie and stood at her kitchen counter with an air of indifference she could see even from afar. She watched him for a second while he watched the package. Finally she cleared her throat. He turned in an unhurried way, not at all startled to see her.

“You haven’t opened it.” His voice broke through the ever increasing tension in the air.

Jenna didn’t know the man, but that didn’t surprise her. They wouldn’t have sent anyone she knew.

“I was going to…” she suddenly felt nervous, the gravity of the situation crashing down around her ears. “I just…” she couldn’t finish her sentence. She hadn’t been waiting for the right time, she just hadn’t wanted to open it.

“We should get started.” The man said, all business. “We don’t have any time to waste.” Still he didn’t move to open the package. Jenna knew it was a formality, really, that she be the one to open it. There was nothing in the brown box to interest this man, this stranger, he’d had his own. She let out a breath as goosebumps raised on the backs of her arms, and stepped up to the counter. The man stepped back as she pulled the box towards her, a tremble noticeable in her hands. As she started tearing the paper, he stepped away more, leaving her alone in the kitchen. She heard his footsteps on the stairs as he made his way to the second floor. Jenna knew what he would find up there. Blank walls, a neatly made bed, no photos or evidence of her old life. Nothing to suggest that she might once have been more than Jenna, more than a lab tech with an affinity for wine. Not that she minded Jenna. Jenna liked takeout and late nights on the weekend. Jenna had friends. Jenna had a life, even if it was a little shabby. Who knew what came next?

With quivering fingers she peeled back the last folds of brown paper and pulled open the top of the box. A small pile of basic Manila folders and a binder stared back up at her glazed eyes. Innocent. Unassuming. She hadn’t heard the man re-enter the kitchen, bad form, she knew, so she jumped a little when he spoke.

“How bad is it?” The words surprised her. Jenna knew that the people in charge emphasize what a gift this is, what a privilege. This is a sworn, sacred duty, not something to be scared of, to be dreaded. She doesn’t answer, just pulls the envelopes out and lines them up one by one, delaying the inevitable. They are numbered, 1 through 5, each with a different color ink. Jenna has been taught what the colors mean, long ago. The binder is stuffed full of clear plastic slips, each slip stuffed to the brim with papers, passports, and money in hundreds of different currencies. Jenna will look at that last. Or maybe first. She can’t decide. The last thing in the box is a set of keys, a pink fluffy bauble hanging off the end of a gold key chain. There are three keys, one brass and one silver, and the third a car key fob.

“Hey, a Lexus. Fancy.” The suited man reaches out and takes the keys out of her hand, examining the logo on the car key. “Must be someone important.”

Jenna couldn’t care less about the car. All she cared about is what was in the envelopes, the flimsy pieces of paper that will determine her whole future.

When she signed up for the CIA training program right out of college she had done it as a joke. Sort of. A joke and desperation. She didn’t know what to do with her degree. She had studied French for goodness sake. French and German and Farsi, but still. She’d minored in political science to be marketable, not because she enjoyed it. Still, she’d passed the background checks with flying colors and had stumbled through the training, making it out by the skin of her teeth. When her instructors had suggested this “special” program, she’d known it was because of its lack of use. No one got called upon in this program. Ever. But here she was, standing in the glaring lights of this kitchen that she had learned to call her own, being called upon. In one of these envelopes was the basics of her assignment, the protectee, her new identity, the part of the world she’d be relocating to, the duration of her assignment. Another reason why this program was so unpopular, and therefore given to those who couldn’t handle anything else, was that the assignments were normally a life sentence. A life sentence somewhere bizarre, like Moldova. They were normally also a solo job, but judging by the man twiddling his thumbs at her kitchen counter, Jenna guessed she wouldn’t have to go through this alone. She just wasn’t sure if that was a negative or a positive yet. She turned away from the envelopes, leaving the keys next to them. The wine glasses were in the cupboard next to the fridge. She poured a healthy glass and ignored the suit's incredulous stare, downing it in one go. Her whole life was about to crumble. She needed a little liquid courage, even if it was only 11 am.

“Ava…”

The name registered vaguely in the back of her brain. This was important. Ava was who she was now. Suddenly not liking that this stranger knew more than she did, Jenna pushed off the counter and back to the envelopes, tearing number one open with a ferocity she didn’t know she possessed in this moment.

In it were financial documents, bank statements, a stock portfolio looking thing. Boring. Envelope number two had more of the same, but for someone named Lucas. The suit. Envelope three had maps, apartment numbers and a tiny mailbox key, an indicator that the silver key on her key ring let her into her new condo. Envelope four was totally in French and Jenna didn’t bother with it at the moment. Five had her new ID, Ava Vengallio, the basic passport and birth certificate and the like. She flipped briefly through the binder, glancing over her new occupation and interests before slamming it back down on the counter. She needed to pack. Slowly she moved towards the stairs.

The rest of the afternoon is like a dream. Suitcase. Lexus in driveway. Airport. Hotel. Suit annoyingly knowing everything. He won’t stop chattering about the rendezvous as they leave the hotel and step out into the bright Iranian desert sun. Jenna wants to shut him up with a slug to the gut, but her head hurts too much to think straight, much less remember the details of the rendezvous with the protectee. They’re meeting in an old warehouse on the outskirts of town. Jenna spent most of the flight memorizing the man’s face, the code words. They reach the block of the warehouse and circle twice, following their, in Jenna’s case, long ago, underused training. Nothing. This guy is a low level political prisoner anyway, Jenna’s new life companion. They enter through the back, ducking under the metal chains holding the rusted doors barely closed. Their footsteps echo in the hallway, making their entrance anything but covert. The main room is lit up with sun streaming through large holes in the tin roof.

The first shot comes from above. Suit crumples immediately, the second shot following close behind. Jenna’s weapon is in her hand faster than she can blink, Suit’s arm around her shoulder almost as fast. She gets off two quick shots before Suit crumbles again, slumping to the floor. Jenna whirls to help him up, firing two more shots up and away, struggling to find the source in all the echoes. She ducks behind a metal cabinet in the corner, breathing hard. She trips over something solid and hits the ground. Pushing herself up she stares over at what tripped her and finds herself looking into the wide open eyes of her protectee. Jenna feels a laugh of hysteria bubble up in her mouth. She turns, ducking around the cabinet and scanning the room. A glint of metal catches her eye and she fires, once, twice, three times. A loud thud spurs her on. She grabs Suit under the shoulders and tugs, firing off more rounds while she moves.

“Come on…come on” she mutters. She feels the hallway closing in and tugs harder, Suit dead weight in her arms. She can see the light from the rusted doors when she turns her head. So close. She can make it. A noise at the end of the hall startles her into loosing a few more rounds, ducking her head in case of returning fire. When none comes, she gives Suit one more big tug, ducks under the chains on the doors, and steps out into the light.

Short Story
2

About the Creator

Katie

Hi! I am an English teacher with a passion for reading and writing! I hope you enjoy my pieces!

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