Cafe International
Khartoum, Sudan
Bad Day

An explosion rudely interrupted the exotic tea, and just as Agent Hemmerschmidt was starting to appreciate its subtleties. Instinct and training kicked in sending muscles into coordinated action to go with the blast.

Spring.

Relax.

Roll.

Cover.

Reassess.

Terrence flexed fingers and toes, ensuring neuroanatomy was intact. He blinked and strained his ears. All he could see was dust, and all he could hear was a eerie ringing. But the chaos was subsiding.

With a modicum of pain, he raised to his knees and took stock of the situation. Half the hotel across the street was now in the street. The cafe was in shambles. His guide, apparently not as well practiced, lay crookedly across a half wall, his spine not in a position consistent with life.

Up on his feet now, Terrence dusted himself off, squinting through the sun and dust.

“Hmph,” he scoffed, “Looks like he had a plan for the hotel room after all. Glad I stayed out of it.”