Flash Fiction

The heat in the palm house made the sweat trickle down his back. He ignored it. The overly sweet smell from the exotic plants caught on the back of his throat. That he ignored as well.

He tightened the grip on the silenced pistol in his pocket. He had spotted the agents before they entered the crumbling Victorian palm house and he needed to eliminate them before he could complete his mission.

One agent, a young woman, he took out behind the giant eucalyptus, the second behind a copy of Michelangelo's David.

And he sat. Blowing bubbles and reciting nursery rhymes.