Author’s Note: This series of posts is borne out of my firm belief that Commentist Dok Zymm is actually a secret agent for a nefarious secret agency currently unknown to the general public or even Congress. Her current job serves as a perfect cover to gather intelligence while her penchant for travel serves as the perfect backdrop for her… missions. To ensure my safety and the safety of my family, I must expressly state that this is a work of fiction and NOT a documentary.

Chapter 1: 7 airports, 6 countries, 5 days, 4 airlines, 3 days leaving the airport, 2 hotels, and a partridge in a pear tree.

DATELINE – LATE AUGUST 2019

It had been a whirlwind trip and completely out of the blue. One day, she was sitting at her workstation in (location redacted) near the Bay Area and one six-minute conversation later, she had plane tickets, hotel reservations, and approved leave.

This particular trip was a Type C. She would visit several places so as to throw off suspicion. She wouldn’t know exactly where the job would be ahead of time, so she had to be ready at all times. The first time, it was nerve-wracking. By the fifth time, which this was, it was routine.

She was now actually able to relax and enjoy the sites like a regular tourist. She even posted pictures on that blog she visited every once in a while. Good to leave a fun digital footprint behind just in case. Nothing to see here, folks, have a dick joke! Or something along those lines.

The flight across had been wonderful. First class always is. Those noobs on the blog always wondered how she could afford it. If they only knew! Of course, she wasn’t paying for it. Well, not in money anyways.

Did the images of dead eyes haunt her in her sleep? To tell the truth, not really. Whether the numbness was borne out of fine wine, gourmet food, first class service, or something deep inside her, it didn’t really impact her that much.

It was a job and she was good at it. Damn good at it.

Thailand was a blur of spicy food and hot weather. She was able to find a beautiful table runner at a local shop run by a lady with one eye. She made the most amazing linens in the city and everyone recommended her work. The fact that it was inexpensive by Western standards was a bonus.

Soon enough, it was off to Dubai. Surely the target was there, right? As she waited patiently at a cafe, she remembered that she rather liked Bruges.

Bruges was better in Christmastime, though. Dubai didn’t really have seasons. She liked seasons. That’s why she liked the Northern United States. Those places had proper seasons. How the fuck could anyone live in the tropics? Vacation yes, but live?

The next stop was Singapore, which had always been one of her favourite cities. Yes, she spelled it with a U because it had British heritage, history, and fuck you if you don’t like it.

As she settled into a window-side table at the Raffles hotel and ordered a Singapore Sling (yes, it’s a cliche, but a secret agent knows you should always be working on your cover), she got the call.

In three hours, the target was due to arrive by boat. Well, yacht is more like it. A little light shopping (for jewelry, dresses, and slaves), a late lunch, and a hop on the Singapore Flyer were on the schedule.

Was it a woman? Dok didn’t mind, of course, but it was always weird to kill a woman. The feminist inside her struggled with the dilemma. She always convinced herself, though, that the true feminist knew there were bad women and good women just as there were bad men and good men.

She would treat her with equal disdain and cold-blooded efficiency.

Of course, she didn’t really know. The only thing she knew was that the target would be escorted by a phalanx of guards and would most likely be wearing a light blue jacket.

As she assessed the situation and made a plan, she chuckled at herself. No wonder they had booked her at the Marina Sands! Those bastards knew exactly how it would go the whole time. Why did they have to wait and make it all dramatic?

She shook the thought out of her head and took a long sip out of her Sling, which had arrived. She allowed herself the luxury of finishing her drink before taking the MRT back.

It was late afternoon now and she had successfully evaded the hotel staff that usually shuffled the tourists and hotel guests back towards the elevators when the observation deck closed. As she set up shop, the cool afternoon breeze hit her hair. It felt good. She would have to account for that.

1200 feet wasn’t easy, but it wasn’t by any means out of her range. She once had hit a target at 1500 feet with a Bergara. This time, she had managed to secure a Tikka, which would be more than adequate for the job.

As expected, the target got on the Flyer. It certainly makes it easier when people are predictable. Selfishness also helps. Wanting the whole view to himself/herself, the target had got on the carriage alone.

Perfect.

She waited until the carriage was at the top and then pulled the trigger. The first one broke the glass. The target had nowhere to hide. The second one hit home. She took four more shots to make sure it was finished.

That extra zero doesn’t show up on the Swiss bank account if there isn’t a funeral.

She wiped the gun down and threw it off the edge along with the shells. She thought about leaving it there with a note saying “Don’t bother”, but she had already done that once. Can’t repeat in this business.

After sneaking back into the pool area, she casually took the elevator down with other guests. The shower felt nice and the change of clothes refreshing. It’s wonderful that hotels have in-room check-out nowadays. On the flight out of Changi, she wondered what she was going to do in Hong Kong.

She smiled as the stewardess provided the answer.

She never found out if it was a man or a woman.

***