Reclaimed

Sweat seeps from my pores. The suspicious eyes of the gestapo sweep from my ID card to my face, looking for signs of duplicity.

“What orders?”, he questions brusquely.

“Cataloguing merchandise”, I answer, just as gruffly, stuffing the card into my pocket, trying to still the shaking in my bones.

“Fine, proceed.”

First hurdle surmounted. Sudden discomfort, griping in my gut. What was I doing? I was going to be caught and killed. No. Stay the path. Remember the mission.

Looking left, then right, I scout the warehouse from under my lashes. Guards manning most doors. My eyes alight on the crate at the back of the room, stamped with the artist’s name I'm searching for. Payload.

I walk quietly, casually, avoiding undue attention, but my mind has a red-hot target painted on that box. My country is calling. I’ll be famous among my people, I reassure myself.

I slide the box onto a nearby trolley, taking care with its fragile contents. My contact should be at the loading bay. A low rumble from his waiting engine. Transferring the box hurriedly, I hear a frantic shout behind me. “Stop, thief!”

The driver speeds away wildly. A gunshot sounds.