Agent England
Written by James Collins and Tally Cameron

Vincent Reen cracked his knuckles as he stared at the red phone, anxiously waiting for it to ring. Ha! Phone-watching. How did I get myself stuck with such a crappy assignment? Okay, so I busted the coffee machine. Curse them and their nontax-deductible caffeine addiction! In retrospect, it probably hadn't been such a good idea to 'test' the rocket launcher...

Just as he was about to start pondering the mystery of jelly doughnuts, the phone rang; someone was calling at last. Hmmmm, this must be it. Time to stop being silly and pull yourself together, Vince. "Hello?" he answered in a put-on voice, determined to give his superiors no reason to complain about his job performance.

A light voice promptly replied, "Why are subs called subs and not really long sandwiches?"

Vincent cheered inwardly. Oh yeah! The password! "Because the world can't be bothered to say 'really long sandwiches'," he quipped in a sarcastic voice, finishing the terrible joke.

"Very good, you're to drop the documents for our agent in the people's park at 6:00." And then the phone went dead--as well as his hopes that he'd be able to go home anytime soon. Situation analysis: absolute crap. I don't have any physical description of the agent, not even something lame like 'he'll be wearing a number 17 football jersey'. There will be tons of people in the park at six. Oh well, I guess they trained me for this... He got up and walked into the kitchenette to have tea and wait for 5:30.

A little after 5:30, Vincent hurried out of the hotel. He bought a bottle of lemonade from a newsstand and drank it as he strode down the road toward the park. Once he arrived, he took note of a police patrol on the path and wondered what they were doing there. He'd been carefully monitoring the news over the past few days, and had even checked the news on the second-rate television in his hotel room before he'd left; there was no report that would explain policeman in the area. What if there's a leak in central command, and they know I'm here? Better to just keep my guard up and continue the mission.

He looked around, scanning the park for potential agents. Mostly mothers with children, I can exclude them. That leaves the woman sitting by herself on that picnic table by the kids' play equipment, the old man drinking out of a bottle in a paper bag, and that younger guy sitting by the drinking fountain with a lunchbox. Vincent slid the documents further down his sleeve, getting ready to make the exchange. It must be the lunchbox guy--I can smell the training on him from here. He chuckled to himself and walked up to the man with the lunchbox.

Vincent handed him the folder labelled 'birthday cake' and said, "Try not to ruin the flavour, I cooked that myself."

The young man took the documents, then gathered his lunchbox as he stood up and replied, "I'm sure the birthday boy will like it very much. Thank you."

Vincent grinned smugly, glad his job was done, and walked away. However, as he did, he heard multiple gunshots in the opposite direction. "Holy guacamole!" That guy must have been tracked here. Damn, there is a leak! Vincent made a swift but cautious retreat. Leaving the cops in the dust was the easy part, but then came the part that involved luck, which he seemed to be running out of lately. He returned to the hotel and sauntered casually over to the receptionist's desk. "Any messages for me?" he asked casually.

"Yes, Mr. Scott, your brother is here, we let him into your room to wait for you."

I don't have a brother! This could be trouble! "Thanks," he said. As he was walking to the main stairs, he bumped into two police officers who had just walked into the lobby.

"Oh, I'm terribly sorry. I should watch where I'm going," he babbled, hoping his nervousness would be interpreted as a personality trait.

"That's quite alright, sir," one of the officers said as he nodded politely, then they both stepped around him and continued on their way. Crap! I'd better leave--now. Vincent whistled as he walked up the stairs until he reached the floor he was staying on, then continued whistling as he walked back to his room. He took the card key out of his pocket and unlocked the door, walked over to the nightstand by the bed and opened the drawer, then pulled out his gun--a desert eagle .50 that had never let him down--and cocked it silently. Still intent on his weapon, he clicked his tongue and admonished, "You're meant to be halfway to England!" Although he hadn't been too surprised to see the lunchbox guy from the park, he hadn't exactly expected it either; but it wouldn't do to let Lunchbox know that.

"They ambushed me as I left the park."

"I know--why do you think I ran like a scared deer?"

Lunchbox glared at him from his reclining perch on the bed and continued, "I've got a bullet in my arm. I can't make it to England alone."

"Stop being such a drama queen--and count yourself lucky. I can see from here that it's a clean exit wound. No bullet extraction required." Vincent grinned as he threw the other agent a roll of gauze bandages he'd been keeping in the top drawer of the dresser.

Lunchbox turned beet red as he caught the bandages. "Ha, ha," he said sarcastically, then he wound the bandages around his arm and ripped it, tying the end into a tight knot.

"I can't believe you told the receptionist you were my brother! We don't look at all alike." That was an understatement--Lunchbox's baby face and bright red curls were as different from Vincent's hawkish nose and straight black hair as the sun was from the moon. He also had the soft stomach of a desk jockey, while Vincent prided himself on making it to the gym regularly.

"Yeah, well, they don't train people like they used to in Slovakia. And twenty dollars can buy a lot of looking the other way, if you know what I mean."

Vincent smirked at the truth in Lunchbox's cynical comment. However, his amusement was short-lived as he heard a sharp rap on the door and remembered the two cops he'd run into on his way up. "Time to leave," he ordered, "They followed you here!" He grabbed Lunchbox by his good arm and yanked him off the bed, then ripped the sheets off to retrieve his spare pistol from under the frame of the cheap metal bed. Tossing it to the other agent, Vincent asked, "You know how to use that?"

Cocking the gun, Lunchbox nodded, his lips pressed together in a thin line. Desk jockey or not, he would have to have received at least basic training--the real question was if he remembered how to use the weapon.

"Come on!" Vincent jerked the door open and head-butted the officer who had been banging on the door, knocking him into the door across from Vincent's now compromised stronghold. Before he could move to take out the other one, the pistol went off behind him--Lunchbox had shot the cop in the leg. Grinning at the rise in his respect for his fellow agent, Vincent threw a capsule explosive to the end of the corridor exploding the door that had previously been marked "Employees Only" before becoming a pile of debris.

"Get the lead out!" he bellowed as he charged towards the stairs that had been concealed by the door, hoping Lunchbox hadn't lost enough blood to get sluggish. Without warning, an armed officer appeared from the direction of the main stairs waving an Uzi and shouting. Vincent barely managed to pull Lunchbox to the ground before the officer started firing, pumping three types of ammunition into the plaster wall, which crumbled into dust. It wasn't exactly a standard issue smoke bomb, but it gave the two spies a veil of cover for them to escape--not the way Vincent had planned on, but plans changed. They both aimed their guns and fired into the dust in the hopes of hitting someone, but neither stuck around for the result. Calm as ice, they hurried down the stairs.

Child's play! Vincent thought gleefully. Upon entering the lobby, they encountered four heavily armed and ready to rumble policemen. "Holy shamolie!" Vincent cried, too surprised to swear. Both spies leapt out of the line of fire--Lunchbox a bit slower due to his injury--and got behind the reception desk. Lunchbox bit his lip and reported that he was out; he had dropped the gun on the floor beside him and was holding his arm, his face turning a decidedly unpleasant shade of off-white.

Vincent changed the clip in his gun and aimed at the wall above the officer's heads. Please let this wall be plaster! Switching it to automatic, he started shelling the wall with bullets, shouting "Take this!" All too soon, the clip ran out, he changed it as quickly as possible but an officer had already come up to them, poking an automatic shotgun in both of their faces.

"Hands up!"

It was hard to think of a smartass comment in such a tight situation, but Vincent decided to try. "How about just one hand?" he asked as he threw a concealed knife from inside his sleeve into the officer's neck so fast that the man had no time to react. While Vincent had dealt with the officer, Lunchbox had reached over and finished changing the clip; he handed it to Vincent, who jumped onto a dinner trolley and wheeled his way to freedom, taking Lunchbox with him.

"Hey, kid," Vincent said after they had hopped into the specially adapted BMW he'd stashed in the alley by the hotel, "what's your name anyway?"

"Jonathon Leversha." He lifted his hand a bit to see if the bleeding had stopped; he looked faint at the sticky red stain on his palm, then clamped his hand back down. "Where are we going?"

"We're going to a safe-house and then home." After they'd driven for a while, Vincent tapped the dashboard twice and it flipped over to reveal a control panel and an extra large beverage holder. Then he tapped the microphone once and said, "Submarine mode." Nothing happened. He tried again, with the same results. "Submarine mode, you daft car!" He punched the wheel and veered into the river, submerging just as the requested mode became active, much to Jonathon's relief.

The sub-car wasn't very different than the normal 'car' mode, except for the obvious changes, of course; the care was still the same sleek silver, and the windows still bore that comfortably concealing tint. Drifting by the police roadblocks had been even easier than Vincent had thought it would be, thanks to the sub-car. Once they were out of the river, they pulled up onto the road and zoomed off in the direction of a farmhouse near the town of Staravodya.

When they arrived, they were surprised to find no signs of life--not even any animals. "Strange.." Vincent mused aloud. A thorough search revealed that there was no food in the larder and all the rooms were wet and damp. They returned to the car to look for something to re-bandage Jonathon's arm with, but before they could find anything, a huge floodlight lit up the yard.

'Vell, vell, vell, vat do ve have here?'

Vincent recognized the voice without even trying; it took a great amount of will to suppress the shudder that travelled up and down his spine at the sound of it. "Herr Gustov," he said calmly as he raised his arms and tried to smile disarmingly at the villain. "I don't suppose you've forgotten me, have you?"

Gustov was a tower of a man, both in height and build, who, Vincent suspected, never shaved--the man seemed to have a permanent five o'clock shadow that was present on his face like fungus every time Vincent had the misfortune to cross paths with him. "The clumsy spy has fallen into my ingenious trap, yet again! Aha-ha-haha!"

Although he could see Jonathon going into fits beside him, Vincent merely smiled and shook his head, then said in an even voice as though speaking to a child, "Please, I prefer the term 'covert operative.' And if your trap was so ingenious, then how do you explain my escape?"

"Silence! You will die at the hands of Herr Gustov himself!"

Vincent curled his lip at the hulking blonde man's tacky use of third person and was about to make a clever comment when he heard the BMW's onboard computer beeping. He kicked Jonathon in the back of the foot and mumbled, "Stall him," then turned to look at the computer screen inside the car while Jonathon stuttered his way through an infantile insult match with Gustov.

--Enemy infantry detected. Agent in danger. Course of action: attack enemy infantry with appropriate hardware.-- The message disappeared and a small camera popped up from the underside of the wing mirror and scanned the area. Then another message showed up on the screen. --Activating short range attack systems. Targeting...--

"Enough of this talk! Now it is time for you to die." While Vincent's attention had been on the computer, Gustov's troops had been gathering around him. But before they could take any action against the two agents, two small turrets popped out of the BMW's bonnet and opened fire on the enemy troops; the floodlight was destroyed almost immediately, plunging the yard in a darkness made even blacker by the comparison of the previous brightness.

It was a little hard to see right away, but Vincent ignored the spots dancing in front of his eyes, opened the door of the BMW and tossed his injured colleague into the car and out of the way, then scrambled onto the manual machine gun turret. He activated it, then spun it to aim at Gustov--then, as an afterthought, started firing at the ground in front of him, making him jump and hop from one side to the other, furiously trying to dodge the bullets.

As far as Vincent was concerned, the torture of Herr Gustov could have--and should have--gone on much longer, but suddenly there was a jolt beneath him and the car started to move. Vincent continued his attack, though, until the car had gone far enough down the road that the bullets would no longer reach Gustov.

Not wanting to spend the rest of the ride outside of the car, Vincent pushed a button and the turret retracted back into roof. He banged on the driver's side window and motioned for Jonathon to pull the car over; he climbed into the passenger's seat and said, "Bring active camouflage online." The car made a few clunking noises, then--if everything was working properly--disappeared from the view of anyone outside.

After a while, Vincent switched places with Jonathon so the younger agent could take a nap; he woke up not long before they came to a stop not far from the border, just in time to discuss what they would do. Surprisingly, Jonathon suggestion was to, "Destroy the whole thing and just drive through!"

Normally, Vincent would have agreed wholeheartedly, but he had the feeling that they'd done more than enough damage for one day. "No, fighting should be our last resort." Jonathon snorted, but Vincent ignored him. "Besides, they have an airbase nearby."

"Then what do you suggest we do?"

Vincent grinned wickedly. "My plan is to stuff you in the boot and drive straight for the neutral zone." He didn't have papers for Jonathon, and the bullet wound would make the border guard suspicious. Once they were in the neutral zone, they'd been virtually untouchable, after all, it was illegal for the Slovakian authorities to shoot at them, or even try to follow.

"Just because I look like I should be stuffed in a cubicle doesn't mean I'm used to that kind of thing," Jonathon said, seething with sarcasm. "But you're right, I'm too conspicuous. So we'll do it your way--but give me some air holes!"

After fitting the boot with air holes and cleaning blood off of the upholstery, Jonathon was forced into the boot, and then Vincent continued to the border. He watched the fat border guard approach, and prayed that Jonathon didn't get the sudden urge to start dancing back there. "Hello, officer."

"Papers?"

Vincent opened the glove compartment and quickly pulled out his carefully forged documents, then handed them to guard. After a few tense moments--Vincent never could completely trust the nerds who worked the papers after they'd accidentally put an 'F' where an 'M' should have been--the guard nodded and said, "Everything seems to be in order, sir, enjoy your trip."

Resisting to urge to sigh in relief, Vincent rolled up the window and drove on into the neutral zone, but as he did so, pandemonium erupted behind him. He looked in the rear view mirror and swore; it was Gustov. "Cobblers!" He slammed his foot on the gas, but the car didn't move--a loud whirring sound filled Vincent's ears, but there was no other reaction to his frantic attempt to speed away. "Hey!" he shouted to Jonathon, "We have to walk!"

He jumped out of the car, then looked around and realized what the problem was: the border guards had attached a cable to the back of the car and were pulling it back. Suddenly the boot popped open and Jonathon looked around; he seemed surprised that the car was moving backwards, but reacted quicker than Vincent would have thought he could, jumping out of the car just as it was pulled back into the enemy border.

Vincent helped him to his feet, then they both starting walking away from the border, towards the friendly side. "Hey, guys, we're English!"

"And that's how it happened, M," Vincent said, completing his report to his commanding officer.

"So you lost a million pound car because they had a tow cable on the bumper?" She frowned, folded her arms over her chest and raised an eyebrow at him. "Well, at least you managed to do plenty of damage and retrieve those vitally important papers" Vincent ducked his head, he was used to her sarcasm, but knew she expected some kind of reaction. "Never mind. We have another great assignment for you. Ever heard of a little place called Hawaii?"

They're sending me to Hawaii after that?! "Yes, M, I've heard of it."

"Good, at least your geographical skills are good. Now, on your way to Mongolia--"

Vincent stiffened, then clenched his hands into fists. "Hey! What happened to Hawaii?"

"Did I say Hawaii? How cruel of me, I meant the frigid eastern Asian country Mongolia." M laughed maliciously, then added in a stern voice, "Maybe if you complete this mission without a shipload of mistakes, then we might send you to Hawaii."

Vincent sighed. "Alright. What's the assignment?"

"Well, it's like this..."

Owari