Writing An Award Winning Story...

“I gotta tell ya. I was really surprised when you asked me to rent out a floor of a decaying building but how could I refuse?” the owner of the building laughed.

He was a short round-faced man and an unseen setback to my purpose here. I had been scouting the area for four days now and no one was supposed to be in this abandoned, decaying building. I nodded and smiled as I listened to his banter while deciding what to do about this predicament. He would lead to my arrest for sure; and as nothing could lead back to my employer I had to make sure there were no trails. I sighed as I pondered over an unnecessary possible decision. However the facts were the facts, I had to make sure my employers’ involvement was never discovered and my acting window was running out. I looked at his turned back and quietly put on my gloves as I inhaled the dry air. The moment he turned around I grabbed his head and whispered, “This won’t hurt” before breaking his neck; I exhaled as I heard the cracking sound of his unfortunate end.

For a short man, he was really heavy and I lost more time hiding his body. I checked his pockets and took his wallet, knowing that it wouldn’t throw off the police but that it might alleviate the somewhat regretful feeling of an unnecessary kill. Six years into this job and I still failed to shake that feeling in the countless times that I had to do dispatch bystanders. After covering the body with a few empty boxes, I picked up my rifle case and made my way up to the fourth floor. The floor was as abandoned as the rest of the building. A loft in its surviving days, the stairs led to a spacious lounge where I put down my case in the center and made my way towards one of the rooms where I had put the table I’d found a floor down. I dragged the table to the lounge floor and checked my watch before opening the case, twenty minutes till the target showed up for his daily morning walk. I opened the case and took out the parts of the gun and assembled it. I checked my watch again before fixing the scope. I looked through the scope to test the visibility and my heart stopped.

I cursed. There was the target, his head bobbing in and out as he walked towards the corner of 2nd Avenue and East 79th street. He wasn’t supposed to be here until another fifteen minutes. I had watched him for days now; his timing was the same every day, meticulous even. I cursed again, his early arrival rendered no time for me to make preparations to destroy all evidence. I opened the bag and looked at the C4 intended to destroy everything tying me to the room. I zipped the bag up as I simply did not have the time to set it. I would have to return later and somehow set it up. I grabbed my rifle and positioned it and held it firmly. I centered the scope, as I started regulating my pulse. I could feel my heart slowing down. I knew that as soon as I pulled the trigger I would have only minutes to escape unnoticed. Precisely 2 clicks to the east, I would take the shot, just as the target approached the Whitney Scott Medical Center. It was ironic really, that he would die in front of those assigned to save lives. He was a few feet from the center, as the view cleared and I focused on the soft spot at the base of his head. As he stopped to buy his routine lunch; I held my breath and pulled the trigger.

---

I sigh as I read the words I’ve written. I just can’t fathom what I can write after that, that won’t be like every clichéd spy novel ever written. I’ve always been a fan of anything that has a link to espionage. I get up from my black swivel chair and pull my used and abused copy of The Bourne Ultimatum from my sagging bookshelf for some much needed inspiration. I riffle through the pages I’ve bookmarked for even a single word that can get my creative juices flowing. The only thing that grabs my attention is the brightly colored arrow shaped sticky notes I’ve put in next to the juiciest paragraphs. I turn the book and see the smiling face of Robert Ludlum staring back at me. His smile seems like a snigger, taunting me on my complete failure as a “novelist”. I place the book in its place and sit back in my chair and look again at my work, preparing to delete the umpteenth failed attempt at a spy thriller. I look out my window, pondering the reasons I’d chosen to become a novelist.
Hearing the lock click at the apartment door is what brings me out of my reverie. My roommate, Sam, is home.

“Hey, you in there?

“ROOM” I shout back. I hear the door slam and the keys rattle on the table before Saad’s frame fills the doorway.

“How was class?” I ask leaning back.

“Same old, same old. I’m beginning to think Kransky has it in for me”

“He call you up again?” I ask with amusement.

“Yeah and he always hinted subtly at me when talking about how many people fail his course every year”

“Well you did write an entire satirical piece on him.”

“But I guessed he would have an appreciation for good subtle humor somewhere in that old brain. How was your day? Get any writing done?

“Started off brightly, but ended up in the same rut. I’m not sure I will even have it complete by the deadline”

“Decided what you’re gonna do about it?” he says as he sits on the edge of my table.

“Well, right now I’m going for a walk. I can’t sit here a minute more.”

“Oh if you pass by the bank, withdraw our weekly sum. We’ve run out.”

I nod as I stand up and go to our small living room. Being college students we don’t have enough time or frankly, money, to decorate the place. I take my jacket from the lone brown sofa and grab my shoes from under the by the door, and head out.
It is a brisk morning, and I hold my jacket close to my neck to ward off the slow cold breeze. Sam and I had moved here in our freshman year of college. We are in different departments; he in journalism and I in story writing. After our freshman year, we’d grown tired of our college appointed roommates and had saved up to rent out our current apartment. Although it was across the town from the campus, it came cheap and the area was good. Besides, we jumped at the chance to cycle every morning to class.

As I walk into the small town that neighbors the College, I can already see it bustling to the start of the worse day of the week. Mondays are worse for my writing because after three straight days of letting loose (recreationally of course), I have to sit down and start writing with the last few remnants of intoxicants still in my system. The look on the faces of the sleepy office workers and college students with bleary eyes and missed shirt buttons gives me a small flicker of happiness in my hatred for Monday.

As I near the United Liberty Bank branch near the town square, something catches my eye. In the mouth of the alley next to the bank, stand two men in black suits. What peaks my curiosity about them is that they look sharp and alert compared to the people around them. The deep sleep deprivation shadows under their eyelids are at sharp contrast to their piercing alert eyes and neat buzz haircuts. Their suits look cheap but are well cleaned. Everything about them screams Federal government. The sight of me standing a few feet apart, eyes fixed on them soon catches their attention.

One of them, a stocky short one, motions for me to come closer. As I approach them I see to my bewilderment, that apart from their heights and body sizes, they are practically twins. As I come up close to them, I ask, “Can I help you gentlemen?”
“Matter of fact, you can. I’m Agent Stickler and this is Agent Vaughn. We’re from the Department of Treasury.” They flash their badges in my face before Stickler continues, “We need your help in an ongoing sting operation son.”

I’m left dumbstruck at his words, still trying to process what is happening. I don’t reply. The other one taps me on the shoulder to break my thoughtlessness. As I’m reeled back to reality, I smile at my fate and nod at the man before me.
“Son I need you to understand that this is a dangerous operation. The criminals involved are members of an international money laundering and counterfeiting group.”

I keep on nodding and grinning, oblivious to his words. The excitement at actually living through a thriller has me so hyped that I’ve lost all sense of caution.

“Now before you go in, remember this, no matter what happens you only say these words and nothing more. The man you’re meeting might try to test you in ways aimed at testing your validity as part of his group. Don’t at any cost let him know who sent you” Agent Stickler finishes these words as his partner pulls a piece of paper and handing it to me says,
“Say this exact sentence, word for word to a bank teller by the name of Wozniak in there.”

I look at the paper and memorize the sentence. Agent Vaughn takes the paper back and pats me in the back saying, “Good luck”

I grin at the thought of catching a wanted criminal. As I enter the doors I see only a couple of customers in line at the teller. I have no trouble finding the man I’m looking for as out of three teller booths, only one is currently manned and working. As I wait in the line, I observe the man the government is after. He doesn’t look much I think haughtily. He is balding with quite a large beer gut and patchy skin. Short and round, he seems to be slower than the 70 year old customer he is tending to.

As I move up the line, I quickly recall the line I am to deliver. Wozniak gets done with the man in front of me and announces in a wheezy tone,

“Next”
I move up confidently

“How can I help you sir?” he asks in a bored voice.

Ignoring his question, I say with a confident smile, “The notes are crisp today, aren’t they”

His expression changes to a grin and he opens the divider to his left and says to me, “I’ve been expecting you. Follow me”
Too excited to take notice of the fact that the managers and other employees totally ignore the permission of a customer out back, I follow him with a skip in my step. We pass through a small drab grey carpeted hall and into the room at the end of it. As I enter I expect him to hand me the package and immediately send me on my way. Instead he whips around with a gun pointed at my face as the door slams shut and two other people, a man and a woman from their voices come up behind me, also sporting guns. They scream “Department of Treasury” before I’m pinned to the ground, with handcuffs slapped to my wrists.

As they bring me up and put me in a chair, Wozniak stands in front of me, completely transformed. Gone is the beer gut, and the baldness. I see the edge of what seems to be a flesh cap peeking out from a box. As I looked at him, he seems to be rubbing off his skin patches with a wet towel. The short fat man I once saw is now stocky and sporting the meanest look I’ve ever seen.

He brings round a chair and sits on it in front of me and grabs me by the jaw, “Now listen here punk, before I break your face, turn in your associates”

I just look at him, too terrified to speak; I repeat the words given to me my agent Vaughn. Wozniak stands up and pulls his hand back curling it into a massive fist before someone behind speaks.

“Sir, false alarm. Looks like they knew we were here” It is the woman; she comes forward from behind me to hand Wozniak a wireless Walkie-talkie. She’s wearing a blue sports jacket with the words ‘Department of Treasury’ stamped on the back in yellow letters. I lower my head and curse myself at my obvious stupidity.

Wozniak listens to the Walkie-talkie as he paces around turning and turning as he ‘Hmmms’ and ‘Okays’. He finally stops and turns to me putting down the Walkie. He motions to the woman and I feel my hands being freed. He sits down in front me again, his menacing expression replaced by a repentant one. He takes his badge out as he says, “Son, here’s the deal. You have landed yourself in the middle of a sting to arrest a band of counterfeiters. I need you to take this bag outside and hand it over to the men who handed you this note.”

“I would just like to go home” I say in an exasperated tone.

“I understand that, and you will, after you do this one small task. The United States Government will be in your debt”
I nod as I say, “Please don’t let me die”

I’m handed a heavy package as Wozniak or whatever the hell his name is, leads me out. As I exit the bank I walk quickly to the alley. When I spot the two ‘Agents’, they’re smoking cigarettes. As I approach them I see their jacket buttons open and very noticeable bulges near their left breast pockets. This halts me in my tracks as they notice me and come forward. They take the package greedily, oblivious to my shaking and sweating and start opening it without a word. Just then, there is a screeching of tires as two vans come to a halting stop at the openings of the alley. As Agent Grey/Wozniak and dozens of his people storm in screaming and brandishing weapons, I hit the floor and cover my head.

A pair of feet approaches and I hear somebody asking “Hey are you okay”

I stay still but then somebody nudges my shoulder and says loudly, “Hey buddy, are you okay?”

As I look up, dazed and confused, the voice continues, “You zoned out there for a bit. What tou thinking about?”

I stand up and I’m looking in the faces of two complete strangers. They look completely different to when I saw them at the end of the street. Their suits look expensive; each has a pocket square with the same gold colored tag on their right breast pockets with the United Liberty Bank logo on each.

I ignore their expectant faces and sigh, “Nothing interesting” as I turn around and start trudging back to the apartment while seriously evaluating my life choices.