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The Inevitable WIP Post
I've begun to have a hankering to write Pros again. And looking through my files I found these fragments for a story that's been in the outline stage for an embarrassing number of years. (Yeah, I'm a day late on this. Oh well.)
* * * * *
He had no choice.
George Cowley once again poured through the briefing from the Home Office, the reports from MI5, the records of his own people and their skills, and tried to come up with an alternate answer, a different solution. But the answer was clear and obvious and there was no way around it.
The Home Office had asked for an agent with Special Forces training, with mercenary experience, with the right sort of Irish background. And no matter how hard Cowley looked, he had no man better suited to the job than Bodie.
He closed the files in front of him and swore under his breath. Squeezing his eyes shut for a moment, he wondered why in the hell he continued to do this job, when it asked so regularly for him to make such sacrifices. But even before he completed the thought, he knew why. It was necessary and so he would do it.
He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Only then did he call his assistant on the intercom.
"Betty, have 3.7 come to my office. Now."
He thought for a second and then added one additional order.
"And make sure he comes alone."
Cowley stood, cursing the leg that seemed to ache more each day, and wondering when it was he had started feeling so damned old.
* * * * *
Bodie found an unusually grim looking George Cowley ensconced in his office. With a glass of scotch in front of him. At nine in the morning.
"Isn't it a bit early for that, sir?" Bodie asked, nodding his head in the direction of the glass.
"Sit down, lad." Cowley’s voice was tight with strain. Bodie felt an icy chill travel from the base of his skull down to his tailbone. This was going to be anything but a friendly visit with Uncle George.
He sat down, his back ramrod straight, his hands clutched uselessly at the arms of the chair.
After several long moments, Cowley pulled himself from whatever thoughts had taken him away, took a last swallow of scotch and made eye contact with Bodie.
"We have a situation," he began.
* * * * *
Doyle grabbed a fist full of his jacket and held it tightly.
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"Couldn't. Cow's orders."
"But it was me, Bodie. Me." Doyle's eyes shone with a barely contained anger.
"Didn't matter."
"Bastard," Doyle spat out.
"Yeah. Probably."
* * * * *
Maybe this'll get me off my butt so I actually write the damn thing.
He had no choice.
George Cowley once again poured through the briefing from the Home Office, the reports from MI5, the records of his own people and their skills, and tried to come up with an alternate answer, a different solution. But the answer was clear and obvious and there was no way around it.
The Home Office had asked for an agent with Special Forces training, with mercenary experience, with the right sort of Irish background. And no matter how hard Cowley looked, he had no man better suited to the job than Bodie.
He closed the files in front of him and swore under his breath. Squeezing his eyes shut for a moment, he wondered why in the hell he continued to do this job, when it asked so regularly for him to make such sacrifices. But even before he completed the thought, he knew why. It was necessary and so he would do it.
He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Only then did he call his assistant on the intercom.
"Betty, have 3.7 come to my office. Now."
He thought for a second and then added one additional order.
"And make sure he comes alone."
Cowley stood, cursing the leg that seemed to ache more each day, and wondering when it was he had started feeling so damned old.
Bodie found an unusually grim looking George Cowley ensconced in his office. With a glass of scotch in front of him. At nine in the morning.
"Isn't it a bit early for that, sir?" Bodie asked, nodding his head in the direction of the glass.
"Sit down, lad." Cowley’s voice was tight with strain. Bodie felt an icy chill travel from the base of his skull down to his tailbone. This was going to be anything but a friendly visit with Uncle George.
He sat down, his back ramrod straight, his hands clutched uselessly at the arms of the chair.
After several long moments, Cowley pulled himself from whatever thoughts had taken him away, took a last swallow of scotch and made eye contact with Bodie.
"We have a situation," he began.
Doyle grabbed a fist full of his jacket and held it tightly.
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"Couldn't. Cow's orders."
"But it was me, Bodie. Me." Doyle's eyes shone with a barely contained anger.
"Didn't matter."
"Bastard," Doyle spat out.
"Yeah. Probably."
Maybe this'll get me off my butt so I actually write the damn thing.
Pros!!!!
moremoremore
Re: Pros!!!!
Pros stories
(Anonymous) 2004-02-12 02:25 pm (UTC)(link)