On subject of spy thrillers
You duck into the ditch, out of sight, and settle in to wait the patrolling guard to continue on his route. Instead, he sits down, lights a cigarette, and stares at sea.
On your left, [D] stares ahead, eyes wide and mouth slightly ajar. On your right, [E] frowns like it could solve all your troubles. You need to get moving, and soon; the window’s narrow enough as it is.
“You,” [E] hisses—he’s staring at [D] now—“do something!”
“Me?” [D] whispers back.
“You’re the local!”
“Right. Right.” [D] pinches the bridge of his nose. “Of course. I got this.”
He straightens his shoulders, and then you stare, incredulous and more than a little terrified, as his whole demeanor changes in front of your eyes. His expression closes, and away goes the soft-spoken, mindful, if a bit too glib [D]; the man who steps out from behind the treeline and on the road is a whole different [D]—cold, arrogant, ruthless—and even the limp on his left leg isn’t enough to hide the easy swagger of a professional killer. If anything, it makes him look more dangerous.
The guard notices him, does a double take and turns his way. “What… where did you come from?”
“The road,” [D] says sharply, and you have to admit he’s still glib at least. “Obviously.”
[E] turns to you. “I don’t like this. Why did they have to send him with us?”
“You said it yourself,” you whisper back. “He’s local.”
“And that’s exactly why this won’t end well. He’ll sell us out the minute it benefits him to do so.”
“Command thinks he’s on the level.” You think for a moment. “Or that it’s worth the risk at least.”
“But is it?” [E] points at [D], who’s currently berating the guard with such authority that even the lack of uniform isn’t diminishing it. “Who’s to say which one’s the true him? You saw it. You saw how easily he switches roles.”
“Part of the job.”
“Yeah, credit where credit’s due. He’s a real pro at least. Won’t stop me from shooting him when he turns against us.”
“Look,” you point. “It worked”
Indeed, the guard is scrambling on his route. Hastily, you might add. You wait until he’s out of sight, then climb out of the ditch, [E] on your heels, to the road.
“I hate doing that,” [D] mutters as you approach him.
“How can we be sure?” [E] accuses. “How can we trust you?”
[D] turns his head, slightly, in a way that lets him side-eye you and [E] while watching down the road, and stands still for a moment. “Probably for the best if you won’t,” he finally says. “I’m not a good man.”