Downtown Crossing, Boston, Massachusetts, U.S. America. I watch as Capucine sits at one of the hotel’s three bars; this one is ‘U’ shaped , stalking her prey. Long blonde hair pulled sloppily into a ponytail. Glasses for effect, wearing a dark coloured Yale hooded sweatshirt and tan khaki pants. Backpack slung over her chair, the contents far more deadly than her college co-ed appearance projects.
I’m supervising this mission, Capucine’s first for the C.I.A.A., as part of her probationary period for the company.
Nursing her one beer, pounding down the mixed nuts, she keeps a careful eye on the mark. When she sees the mark’s signal to the bartender to settle up, Capucine does the same. Thanking the bar girl for her patience with a small box, I later advise the bar girl not to eat anything inside that box, she sprints to catch up with her victim at the lift.
Once in the lift with the job, Capucine makes a flirty pass, knowing already he is going to his lonely room, having struck out in the bar just minutes before. Capucine tags along with the mark, engaging in suggestive conversation all the way to his room and enters with him to complete the contract.
I sprint from my seat at the bar and up the three flights of stairs to continue my surveillance. As I pretend to be having trouble with the key for my room, Capucine and the mark stroll past behind me.
In my peripheral vision I watch as Capucine and the target enter his room. Before the door closes behind them I hear Capucine remark to the job about wanting to show him her cookies. I’m temped to observe the kill, I did just pick up a Peephole Viewer from the C.I.A.A.’s logistics department; but I decide to trust Capucine to her own devices.
Barely two hours later Capucine joins me at the hotel’s martini bar. “Done”, she reports as she drags one of the bar stools very close to mine and sits. “It’s nice to be paid for this kind of work for a change”, Capucine observes. Up to this time Capucine’s victims were all matters of her own survival; kill or be captured, killed, or worse. “Proof!”, I demand. Capucine produces a Jolla smartphone from the pocket of her hoodie and thumbs to a picture. The photo is of a very dead shirtless man with an opened box of Thin Mints protruding from his chest.
“Very nice”, I observe quietly. I believe Capucine was grateful I didn’t interrogate her about the events that transpired in the hotel room. She did blush a little though, when I pointed out there was a mint and chocolate smear on her chest, just below her neckline.