Ficlets

You jab Max in the shoulder. “Seriously? Spy 101 – always take their guns away.”

He gets that nervous, glassy-eyed look on his face that usually means he’s about to start lying or conning his way into or out of something, but instead his face falls into a grimace.

“Sorry. I’m still new to the Han Solo thing.”

Harris is coming closer, visibly annoyed by the blood from his nose that stains his hands and shirt. You know Max isn’t packing, and your Walther is tucked deep into your waistband behind your back. You hand Max the iPod, and he instinctively begins to crack it open to validate Harris’s claim. Harris gestures.

“Go ahead, rip it to pieces. It’s already served its purpose.” Max eyes him suspiciously, then closely inspects the circuitry inside the iPod.

“Well Lana, he’s right. Except for the GPS , this thing’s dead as a camel.”

Max’s odd choice of phrase triggers a subconscious response. In one motion, the Walther is in your hand pressed directly against Agent Harris’s forehead.