Written for the Daily Flash Fiction Challenge with a word limit of 300.
The prompts: Story must have a clock, a fish and a pair of knitting needles
MISDIRECTION
Michael stood inconspicuously near a newsstand in Gare Saint Lazare, the busiest train station in Paris. He’d been there, in one guise or another, for four days now; gaining familiarity with the pulse of the old landmark as it responded to the surges in rush hour traffic as well as to the near-silent sliding of a midnight mop across its ancient floors.
The big clock on the wall said it was six. Train 577 from Rouen was due about fifteen minutes ago. It would not actually arrive for another ten minutes, predictably late and thus, oddly on time. This had been built into the plan as had everything else.
Every security guard was on Michael’s payroll, if only for this one hour; as were the three maintenance men scattered about the giant lobby. The guy behind the fast food stand could feel the gun under his apron and he passed fried fish and chips across the counter to fat man with an assault rifle barely hidden under his large coat.
Across town at the much smaller train station, a dark little man smiled to himself as he thought about how he had fooled those idiot assassins over at Gare Saint Lazare. How arrogant of them to think they could keep such a large operation a secret. They would be gravely disappointed when they found that he had not taken the 577 as anticipated.
As he prepared to exit his train, an elderly woman stumbled in front of him. He caught her arm and she smiled up at him. That was when he first noticed her too-young eyes. The knitting needles went in silently and with a surprising lack of pain.
At a signal from Michael, Gare Saint Lazare saw fifteen of her patrons fade into the background, their mission accomplished.
The prompts: Story must have a clock, a fish and a pair of knitting needles
MISDIRECTION
Michael stood inconspicuously near a newsstand in Gare Saint Lazare, the busiest train station in Paris. He’d been there, in one guise or another, for four days now; gaining familiarity with the pulse of the old landmark as it responded to the surges in rush hour traffic as well as to the near-silent sliding of a midnight mop across its ancient floors.
The big clock on the wall said it was six. Train 577 from Rouen was due about fifteen minutes ago. It would not actually arrive for another ten minutes, predictably late and thus, oddly on time. This had been built into the plan as had everything else.
Every security guard was on Michael’s payroll, if only for this one hour; as were the three maintenance men scattered about the giant lobby. The guy behind the fast food stand could feel the gun under his apron and he passed fried fish and chips across the counter to fat man with an assault rifle barely hidden under his large coat.
Across town at the much smaller train station, a dark little man smiled to himself as he thought about how he had fooled those idiot assassins over at Gare Saint Lazare. How arrogant of them to think they could keep such a large operation a secret. They would be gravely disappointed when they found that he had not taken the 577 as anticipated.
As he prepared to exit his train, an elderly woman stumbled in front of him. He caught her arm and she smiled up at him. That was when he first noticed her too-young eyes. The knitting needles went in silently and with a surprising lack of pain.
At a signal from Michael, Gare Saint Lazare saw fifteen of her patrons fade into the background, their mission accomplished.
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