Burn Notice: Code Words 2/??
Title: Of Things We'd Like to Forget (Code Words: Chapter Two) Chapter One
Written by: kuroilotus
Rating: PG-13
Notes: N/A
Summary: Michael takes a moment to remember.
Having a good memory is an integral part of this business. You have to remember your name, your contacts, your cover, on the spot without missing a beat. Unfortunately, that also means you have a hard time forgetting. No matter how much you’d like to.
Karachi, Pakistan (several years ago)
Michael sat in a hotel lobby, his tan suit well pressed, shades the color of smoke over his eyes. With an easy motion, he checked his watch. His contact was late. Ten minutes now, nothing good ever came of a contact not being punctual. It usually meant that one started looking for them at the bottom of the nearest body of water. Or in areas like this, their body turned up out in the desert being pecked at by birds. Either way, they were not much help.
Picking up the case beside his chair, Michael moved from where he had been sitting. It was time to find out what happened to his contact. The mission could be compromised. If so, he needed to clean out his room, wipe everything down, and disappear. No use in letting anyone know he’d ever been there.
At the door of the hotel, a man called to him,
“Sir, sir, wait. A message for you.” He wore a uniform, but it wasn’t one that Michael immediately recognized. It might have been the uniform of the hotel, but a quick scan of the immediate area showed the front desk clerk was wearing something very similar, yet in a different color. Not wanting to appear as if anything was wrong, Michael waited, letting him get closer. A case like the one he had in his hand worked effectively as a bludgeon and as a shield. At least for the first shot. The second would undoubtedly go straight through it and that is assuming they are not using armor piercing rounds, at which point the entire idea is moot. In this area of the world, one generally assumes armor piercing rounds are the norm. It’s just safer that way.
“A message for me,” the spy didn’t make any overt motions to pull a weapon, yet he was on edge preparing for the necessary flight if it came.
“Yes, sir, Mr. Lot says that he’s sending a car for you,” the man in the uniform smiled at him, bobbing his head in a gesture of agreement or happiness one couldn’t be quite sure.
“Sending a car for me,” Mr. Lot was not someone he was familiar with. Automatic red flag. “Here?”
“I cannot say for certain, sir. I was only told to tell the man in the lobby in the tan suit a car was coming for him courtesy of Mr. Lot.” An unwitting pawn, he had to be. Michael spared a thought for whether or not this man was going to live to see the next day.
“Thank you,” Michael tipped the man in US currency. It tended to go fairly far. That tip might be the difference between one of his children starving or not. Then he moved out of the hotel, hurrying but not running. If Mr. Lot was sending the car to the hotel, Michael did not want to be at the hotel when it got there. He had to have been made. Time to scrub the mission, cut his losses, and run. There would always be another chance to pick a side in the Pakistani argument over control. If there was one thing this region was good for, it was infighting. Miss a shot, wait a month or two, you’d get another one. Come back under another name with a different deal for a new person and you can try again. Eventually, you’ll achieve your objective.
His movement through the crowds was erratic. Any tail was going to have a hard time keeping up with him. Exactly how Michael tended to like it. Letting himself into his rented space, he almost breathed a sigh of relief. Except that there were footprints on the carpet. The maid came when Michael left in the morning, something Michael insisted on.
“Mr. Lot has a car downstairs for you,” said an unidentified voice as the hammer on a gun was pulled back with a click. Michael turned his head enough to take in the person and followed the motion with tossing the case at him. The first shot went straight through it. Armor piercing rounds, as expected, sometimes it sucked to be right. The time necessary to open the door was time he didn’t have, so instead he went charging forward and into the bedroom. The choice to have a hotel room on the second floor was a matter of convenience. High enough up that people cannot see in your windows very well without really looking but close enough to the ground the fall won’t kill you as long as you don’t land on your head and crush your neck.
Two shots through the window to weaken it and Michael crashed through it. He landed wrong and as he was recovering from what he hoped was only a twisted ankle, another gun was stuck in his face.
“I know, I know, Mr. Lot has a car waiting for me.” Well, at least he was going to get a chance to meet Mr. Lot.
***
Michael sat in front of his computer, leaning back in the chair, hands behind his head. He hadn’t thought about those sweltering days in Pakistan in a long time. Maybe because it was easier to let memories like those disappear. The cool blue light of his screen saver played across the dissatisfied look on his face. He hadn’t thought about Mickey herself in a long time. Pakistan hadn’t been the only time he’d seen her or worked with her. He counted at least four times the two of them crossed paths.
Fiona didn’t remember but Mickey came Belfast. The two women walked past one another, one on the way out, the other on the way in. If they spared each other more than a glance, he didn’t know or care. Mickey was sent to clean up a situation in the city, one involving him and Fiona. As a professional courtesy, she stopped in to let him know what was going on. He convinced her to let things sit for a few more days before taking any steps. A good thing too. Mickey’s orders were to eliminate the connection between an IRA gun smuggler and an Iranian arms dealer, a deal Fiona was smack in the middle of, and make it look like they turned on one another. He defused the situation before Mickey was forced to shoot anyone.
Yet he remembered what she said sitting across from him in the booth.
“My friend, I’m a cleaner. When I’m done, there are no loose ends. They are either tied up or burned off. Simple as that. Leave no loose ends and I don’t have to handle it for you.” Then she had paid for both of their drinks and walked out on him.
Getting up, he walked down the short flight of steps from his computer station to his bed. He needed to find out what loose ends Mickey was there to take care of and quickly. Preferably before the woman started killing people.
Written by: kuroilotus
Rating: PG-13
Notes: N/A
Summary: Michael takes a moment to remember.
Having a good memory is an integral part of this business. You have to remember your name, your contacts, your cover, on the spot without missing a beat. Unfortunately, that also means you have a hard time forgetting. No matter how much you’d like to.
Karachi, Pakistan (several years ago)
Michael sat in a hotel lobby, his tan suit well pressed, shades the color of smoke over his eyes. With an easy motion, he checked his watch. His contact was late. Ten minutes now, nothing good ever came of a contact not being punctual. It usually meant that one started looking for them at the bottom of the nearest body of water. Or in areas like this, their body turned up out in the desert being pecked at by birds. Either way, they were not much help.
Picking up the case beside his chair, Michael moved from where he had been sitting. It was time to find out what happened to his contact. The mission could be compromised. If so, he needed to clean out his room, wipe everything down, and disappear. No use in letting anyone know he’d ever been there.
At the door of the hotel, a man called to him,
“Sir, sir, wait. A message for you.” He wore a uniform, but it wasn’t one that Michael immediately recognized. It might have been the uniform of the hotel, but a quick scan of the immediate area showed the front desk clerk was wearing something very similar, yet in a different color. Not wanting to appear as if anything was wrong, Michael waited, letting him get closer. A case like the one he had in his hand worked effectively as a bludgeon and as a shield. At least for the first shot. The second would undoubtedly go straight through it and that is assuming they are not using armor piercing rounds, at which point the entire idea is moot. In this area of the world, one generally assumes armor piercing rounds are the norm. It’s just safer that way.
“A message for me,” the spy didn’t make any overt motions to pull a weapon, yet he was on edge preparing for the necessary flight if it came.
“Yes, sir, Mr. Lot says that he’s sending a car for you,” the man in the uniform smiled at him, bobbing his head in a gesture of agreement or happiness one couldn’t be quite sure.
“Sending a car for me,” Mr. Lot was not someone he was familiar with. Automatic red flag. “Here?”
“I cannot say for certain, sir. I was only told to tell the man in the lobby in the tan suit a car was coming for him courtesy of Mr. Lot.” An unwitting pawn, he had to be. Michael spared a thought for whether or not this man was going to live to see the next day.
“Thank you,” Michael tipped the man in US currency. It tended to go fairly far. That tip might be the difference between one of his children starving or not. Then he moved out of the hotel, hurrying but not running. If Mr. Lot was sending the car to the hotel, Michael did not want to be at the hotel when it got there. He had to have been made. Time to scrub the mission, cut his losses, and run. There would always be another chance to pick a side in the Pakistani argument over control. If there was one thing this region was good for, it was infighting. Miss a shot, wait a month or two, you’d get another one. Come back under another name with a different deal for a new person and you can try again. Eventually, you’ll achieve your objective.
His movement through the crowds was erratic. Any tail was going to have a hard time keeping up with him. Exactly how Michael tended to like it. Letting himself into his rented space, he almost breathed a sigh of relief. Except that there were footprints on the carpet. The maid came when Michael left in the morning, something Michael insisted on.
“Mr. Lot has a car downstairs for you,” said an unidentified voice as the hammer on a gun was pulled back with a click. Michael turned his head enough to take in the person and followed the motion with tossing the case at him. The first shot went straight through it. Armor piercing rounds, as expected, sometimes it sucked to be right. The time necessary to open the door was time he didn’t have, so instead he went charging forward and into the bedroom. The choice to have a hotel room on the second floor was a matter of convenience. High enough up that people cannot see in your windows very well without really looking but close enough to the ground the fall won’t kill you as long as you don’t land on your head and crush your neck.
Two shots through the window to weaken it and Michael crashed through it. He landed wrong and as he was recovering from what he hoped was only a twisted ankle, another gun was stuck in his face.
“I know, I know, Mr. Lot has a car waiting for me.” Well, at least he was going to get a chance to meet Mr. Lot.
***
Michael sat in front of his computer, leaning back in the chair, hands behind his head. He hadn’t thought about those sweltering days in Pakistan in a long time. Maybe because it was easier to let memories like those disappear. The cool blue light of his screen saver played across the dissatisfied look on his face. He hadn’t thought about Mickey herself in a long time. Pakistan hadn’t been the only time he’d seen her or worked with her. He counted at least four times the two of them crossed paths.
Fiona didn’t remember but Mickey came Belfast. The two women walked past one another, one on the way out, the other on the way in. If they spared each other more than a glance, he didn’t know or care. Mickey was sent to clean up a situation in the city, one involving him and Fiona. As a professional courtesy, she stopped in to let him know what was going on. He convinced her to let things sit for a few more days before taking any steps. A good thing too. Mickey’s orders were to eliminate the connection between an IRA gun smuggler and an Iranian arms dealer, a deal Fiona was smack in the middle of, and make it look like they turned on one another. He defused the situation before Mickey was forced to shoot anyone.
Yet he remembered what she said sitting across from him in the booth.
“My friend, I’m a cleaner. When I’m done, there are no loose ends. They are either tied up or burned off. Simple as that. Leave no loose ends and I don’t have to handle it for you.” Then she had paid for both of their drinks and walked out on him.
Getting up, he walked down the short flight of steps from his computer station to his bed. He needed to find out what loose ends Mickey was there to take care of and quickly. Preferably before the woman started killing people.