Allen left his rental at the airport, glad to have returned from Hotel Diamond with no tail this time. His flight to the island of Greaves’ last known, St. Kitts, gave him just enough time to check in with the office. Allen sent a quick text to Shipman, using a template he’d created in Chime for such occasions:
Sorry, Tom, got delayed. Will check back in after next open house.
Sure, Tom had probably seen that text a half dozen times by now, but it always seemed enough to keep the unimaginative agent off Allen’s back during missions.
Turtle Beach in St. Kitts was a beautiful, sparsely populated little area at the south end of the island. The soft breeze, easy sunshine, and serene ocean cove visible from nearly every property would have made it a sweet area to claim for a geographic farm. With an east-facing beach of pure white sand that seemed created for eternal relaxation, Allen lamented that Greaves wouldn’t get to enjoy it, having gone on to his own eternity.
Allen found the bungalow from Fram’s “property alert” and carefully cased the perimeter, to make sure there were no booby traps or surveillance activities.
He checked the back door. Unlocked. He drew his side arm, took in a deep breath of salty air, and cautiously pushed the door open.
Allen scanned the musty kitchen. Light filtered in through the dirty windows above the sink, where a pair of lazy flies hopelessly circled the months-old stack of dishes. Next to the overturned dining chair, his eyes fell on the dark brown splashes indicating dried blood from a violent struggle. He spied a note attached to the fridge with a souvenir magnet, and took a step forward.
Allen froze and looked down.
He’d really stepped in it now. Well, on it. It was the foot-pedal activation switch for an M18 Claymore mine. Allen gulped and looked around the room for the mine itself. The cord from the switch wrapped around the door, hugging the wall, and ending just six feet away to the left. The mine was positioned on the counter near the microwave, pointing right at the door where Allen stood sweating.
Allen pulled out his phone. Of course. Bad coverage. He reached up as high as he could until he got a signal, and started Googling the trigger time on a Claymore. Every millisecond was going to count if he was going to get out of this alive and with all his limbs.
As much as he loved the islands, he didn’t want to wind up like Fram.
Tune in next week for another exciting installment of Agent Allen!