The Un-Pitted Olive

The spy sat, his back to the wall, scanning the two points of egress. The white tuxedo hung flawlessly upon his well-muscled physique and his keen eyes followed the comings and goings of the high society guests as they mingled purposefully in their own rarefied air. He sipped lightly at his martini.

Though he came from modest beginnings the spy came off as well bred thanks to extensive training. But that was not all. He could fly any aircraft, pilot any ship, boat or land vehicle. He could survive desert or tundra for weeks with only the clothes on his back. A grateful government had provided the finest training. He spoke seven languages and could defuse explosive devices of any nature. In short, the spy was the ideal weapon for infiltration, extraction and elimination.

Most important he could mix effortlessly into a room such as this and scan through hundreds of careless millionaires until he found that one almost invisible intruder who was, like himself, a most carefully camouflaged impostor. In moments he'd identified the interloper. Tall and elegant, moving like a swell of snow in a gentle breeze, she made her easy way around the room. String music filled the spaces between clinking glasses and bold laughter. Her hair was blond and perfectly curled to cascade down the obvious red evening gown. 

Russian, he noted silently. Certainly Russian, though no accent would betray her insidious intentions. She mingled casually drawing attention without suspicion. A delicate balance the spy himself knew too well. One must never allow conversation to tread into the personal. Even the self-absorbed elites can sniff out a fake once talk moves to families or universities.

The spy stood and paced to the bar to have a closer look at his prey. Her accent (the one she wore in masquerade) was well-off-British and delivered unspoken promises that loosen secrets, reveal safe codes and let slip the most confidential names and locations. 

She lifted her gaze, the spy, leaning casually against the bar met it with a nod. He pulled the olive from his drink by the pick and popped it into his mouth hoping it came off as seductive. He was about to put his many years' training to use and bring in his quarry. He bit down.

As the spy bit down a searing pain filled his head and a small bit of blood ran down his lip.

"Goddammit! You left the pit in the damn olive!" he hissed at the bartender who wore a gaudy captain's coat.

 "You chipped my f*****g tooth, you idiot! I hope you don't expect me to pay for that drink!"

The music changed octaves and filled itself with raven's calls and bestial grunts as some blurred red dragon flashed across the room swift and dangerous, swooping in on her prey and as the world existed outside a narrowing tunnel. The spy fell back slowly as he watched the Russian curl her talons seductively along the bartender's red-apple cheek.

Her perfect red lips parted and the last light of the world dyed out, perhaps forever. 

"No, Mr. Bond, some winged demon croaked. I expect you to die."

Reviews

[Myra Fellows]

BRAVO! LOVE IT. You had NO time. NOT one calculated second for an unpitted olive. Damn that bartender. Damn all of the bartenders who potentially put lives at stake with careless, thoughtless and laziness when it comes to olives and their pits.
Do you know that if one mouths the words "Olive Juice" it will look as though you are saying "I love you"????
I wonder if the talented spy knew that...just the juice of an olive may have saved him...
Until the next challenge......
Myra