“We… we need to talk, Kayla,” Vincent grunted. “There’s something I… it feels quite important that we’re honest with each other about some stuff.”
Kayla whipped her head backwards to glare at him, lips turning white where her finger pressed them. Vincent went silent, dropping his eyes to avoid her gaze; unfortunately, this left him staring right at it.
Footsteps approached, accompanied by the crackle of radio. Vincent had to concentrate so hard on not panting with the extertion of it, the bloody weight of the thing, that he missed the point at which they passed. It took Kayla’s elbow to bring him back to the moment.
“Move,” she told him sharply.
Vincent felt her depart, but he couldn’t quite tear his eyes away. He stood there, straining and sweating for a long moment, gaze fixed on it: the head of the fastest man alive, slumped forward onto the abdomen of the fastest man alive, which trailed the limbs of the fastest man alive, which were all being supported by the agonised muscle network of Vincent’s upper body.
“Vincent, are you with me? You need to fucking hustle!”
Bracing against the wall behind him, Vincent dragged and heaved and slid his way along to the point where the corridor crossed another. Then, adjusting his position, he attempted to haul the Olympian across the gap in a single burst. Halfway over, his right heel lost traction and he collapsed, emitting a ragged cry as they both fell.
Kayla’s face appeared instantly, upside-down, to block out the glaring lights mounted on the ceiling.
“Don’t just lie there, you idiot! They could be on their way right now! Do you have any idea how much noise you just made?”
Vincent tried desperately to draw in enough air to curse at her, but it was a hopeless task; instead he gasped like a near-drowned man breaking the surface, trying to beam his rage out through his eyeballs.
Kayla was unfazed. “20 meters, Vincent. We’re 20 fucking meters away from a revolution, and all you can do is piss sweat all over the floor. GET UP!”
Her toe sent bolts of lightning shooting from his shoulder to his fingertips. Stifling a roar, Vincent thrashed furiously to get out from under the athlete’s giant frame, scrambling up to confront her.
“Listen, you miserable b-” He stifled the word, but it was too late.
Kayla’s eyebrows shot up, and she planted her hands on her hips as if sinking the foundations of some vast edifice. “Bitch, Vincent? Was that a ‘bitch’ you were about to offer?”
He found himself raising his hands, waving them gently. “No, listen… it’s just an old habit, I didn’t… I don’t -”
“Why are you flapping your paws at me, Vincent? Do you want me to ‘calm down’? Do you think it’s female hysteria, the fact that I don’t want us to be caught abducting the most recognisable sports personality in the world?”
Vincent shook his head. “NO. No, I just… I’m doing the best I can, but he’s really heavy!”
“Suck it up, Vincent. Are you telling me you never had to move a body in the Secret Service?”
“That’s not what the Secret Service is about,” he hissed, hands clawing at the air in frustration, “but look, that’s what I was saying, we need to talk about…that.”
Kayla pushed past him and seized an arm. “Fine, He-Man. I’ll help you. Grab the other side. We don’t have all day.”
Remembering where they were, Vincent’s panic returned. He scrambled around to seize the opposite elbow and bicep; together they dragged him, trainers squealing against the polished floor, out of the main thoroughfare.
It was much easier with two of them. Vincent found himself wondering at how strong Kayla was for such a slight woman, until the voice of his emasculation demon piped up internally and reminded him that it was simply a reflection of his own weakness. He fought to blot it out, staring intently at the feathery pink tail of Kayla’s tranquiliser dart where it lay embedded in the sprinter’s thigh.
Kayla abruptly dropped the other arm, and Vincent realised they must have reached the cupboard. He followed suit, and began to babble urgently as she tinkered with the lock.
“Look, I haven’t been completely honest with you, and this whole thing has moved so fast. That night you met me… it was actually my first meeting. I’ve never been political before. And when you started talking to me… your passion, it was so impressive… I may have neglected to mention some -”
“Geh to the vukking poin, Vincen,” Kayla interrupted him, forcing the words out past the lockpick clasped in her teeth.
“I was never in the Secret Service,” he blurted.
The door clicked open. It swung inward as Kayla turned her head slowly toward him, her movement synchronising eerily with the squeal of the hinges.
“I… the way I phrased what I was saying, about the applications process, I realise I gave a certain impression. But I never made it, not even close. I’m sorry. I just wanted to impress you.”
Taking the pick from her teeth, slowly and deliberately, Kayla told him: “Get that big fucking idiot into the cupboard, Vincent.”
Flushing with shame, Vincent did as he was told. Trying to heft the man again after stopping was incredibly difficult; feeling Kayla’s scornful eyes on his back as he grunted and strained made the whole process unbearable.
With the last pull over the threshold, he felt a muscle pop in his back and howled in pain as they went down again. The athlete’s massive frame pinned him like some vast paperweight, and to struggle sent waves of pain through his body; defeated, he opted simply to lie in a heap.
Kayla closed the door without a flicker of emotion. “Let me get this straight, Vincent. You signed up to, let’s face it, perhaps the most audacious kidnap attempt in modern history, during the most high profile sporting event ever staged, with the aim of sparking a global revolution… despite having no actual interest in the cause, and no relevant skills?”
Vincent stared fixedly at the dart again, while Kayla crouched beside him.
“Do you have any idea how big a risk we’ve just taken, Vincent?” she asked in softer tones.
He nodded silently.
“Why on earth did you agree?”
“B-because… I wanted you to like me,” he mumbled, cringing at how the words sounded as they left his mouth.
Kayla closed her eyes, then stood and paced the room. After a few moments, she crouched beside him again.
“Vincent, thank you for finally being honest with me. I know it must have been hard. Now, I’m going to be honest with you.”
She gently tilted his chin upwards until their eyes met. “I don’t care that you weren’t some kind of secret agent, and I don’t care that you aren’t a true believer in the cause.”
A slight, hopeful smile twitched the corners of Vincent’s mouth. “You don’t?”
Kayla settled into a more comfortable cross-legged position, resting her elbow of the head of the fastest man alive as she leaned in closer to Vincent. “Nope, I don’t. Not one bit.”
“All I care about,” Kayla continued, “Is that you have a Mexican passport.”
The broad smile folded slowly into a puzzled from. “What?”
“Well, you were eligible to apply, at any rate. Because of your Mother. And we applied on your behalf, naturally.”
Kayla fished around in her pocket and produced a small, burgundy-coloured booklet in a jiffy bag. She smiled bashfully as she reached across the athlete’s prone form and tucked it into Vincent’s pocket.
“Kayla, what’s happening?” Vincent asked. He felt tiny, like a child again. The body on his chest felt like a slab of lead.
“The plan is happening, Vincent. You see, I don’t care about your deceptions because I am sort of a secret agent, and I do have a cause… albeit not the one I signed you up to.”
Clambering to her feet again, Kayla dug around in her bag and produced a dark-coloured object, which she set about fixing to the wall.
“What is that?” Vincent cried frantically.
“I think you can guess what it is, Vincent.” She produced the tranquiliser gun from her purse. “Don’t worry, you won’t feel anything. I’ll dart you before I go.”
At this, Vincent finally began to cry. His blubbering, the emasculation demon’s voice assured him, was pitiful.
“Frankly, I’m less surprised that you joined a kidnap attempt because you had a crush on a girl than I am by your total lack of suspicion throughout. Didn’t it strike you that the whole thing had been a bit… easy? Didn’t you have the wit to wonder why?”
The taunt provoked a moment of clarity. He reached for his pocket, intent on examining the passport, but Kayla was suddenly there to crack the butt of the gun into his hand.
“Aaaarrgghhhhh!” He roared, tears streaming down his cheeks. “Whhhhyyyy? What the f-fuck does a passport matter?”
“It matters to my employer very much,” Kayla assured him, standing back to take aim.
“Whhhhyyyy?” Vincent sobbed again, insistent.
“Oh, for lots of reasons. Convincing doubters. Justifying the necessary long-term steps. But for starters,” Kayla smiled, as she squeezed the trigger, “We’re going to build a wall… and your dirty, mongrel kin are going to pay for it.”
This was a Story Generator entry, based on the formula: Olympics, Secret Service Agent, Panic, Missing Athlete