New Boundaries

"Can you fill up that last bit of paperwork for me, Roger?"

Roger leaned back on his chair and rolled his chair back to see who was calling him. It was Margaret, one of the nice office ladies on the floor. She had done a few favors for him once in a while so he nodded back, clicking his pen in his right hand. He begun the paperwork before the sun had set and finished when everybody had cleared the office. Unfortunately for Roger, he had a major presentation tomorrow night and hadn't even begun his preparation so he worked all night, slaving away at his desk.

When the sun rose around seven, he stood from his desk and removed his glasses. He pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed before stretching from left to right. If he left now, he could get some sleep before his presentation tonight.

Roger's house was a fading white with a messy front yard full of autumn leaves and a roof that leaked too often. But home was still home. He dragged his feet to the front steps, an invisible weight of exhaustion pushing him down. However, today seemed to be an unlucky day because when he tried opening the front door, it was locked. He searched his pockets but realized he had forgotten the house keys. Not to mention his wife had probably left for her own work too.

He groaned in displeasure and stalked off back to his car. He'd simply have to drive somewhere he could sleep or maybe at least get a cup of coffee. That would be nice.

Roger found a small coffee shop tucked away by large brick buildings in the south of downtown Chicago. It was called something simple, Lisa's Cup of Tea, and true to its name, they served tea along with a bunch of other beverages and snacks. Roger took a seat near the window, taking a sip of his black coffee. This should last him an hour or maybe two.

Suddenly, a man slid into the seat in front of him. He was tall, well dressed, and had shades on even though it was cloudy and they were inside. Maybe he had vision problems or something. But wait, who was he?

"Who—"

"Hello, Mr. Sanders."

"How the—"

"Roger Sanders," the man interrupted. "Thirty-one years old, six feet tall, white male, goes jogging on Monday and Friday mornings, favorite food is spaghetti, favorite drink is coffee, wife's name is Sally—married for five years with no child yet, has a stable job as a financial director in a private company, and has been locked out of his own house this morning. Is that right?"

"Woah there," Roger said, putting his hands up in surrender, "I don't know which company you work for but if our company poked holes in your financial and social status, that's business and this is strictly unprofessional of you."

The man did not move or change his facial expression. "I am agent Samuel Ryan, and I work for the FBI." He said it like he was reading straight from a script except less emotion and more montotone speaking.

Roger scoffed. "Okay, sure. Then I'm the president of the United States. Crazy Chicago people," he muttered, standing up.

Samuel looked up through his aviators. "You will sit down and listen to what I am going to say on behalf of the FBI and public government and if you do not, men outside will gun you down." He barely flinched as he spoke as if he gunned people down everyday. He probably did.

"This is a sick joke," replied Roger but when he cast his eyes quickly outside the window, he saw two people on top of the roof in the building across the street and took a shaky breath. Roger slowly sat down again. "Okay, I'm listening. What do you want from me?”

"We would like for you to work with us."

Roger spat out his black coffee before clumsily grabbing napkins and wiping at the table. "You what?"

"We have done solid and thorough research on you and we have watched you for a couple months now. You're hardworking, diligent, talented, faithful, and a little cunning when needed. You're exactly who we need."

"Me?" Roger looked around. People were bustling in and out of the cramped shop with waiters moving around, nodding and smiling at customers, while others ate and talked over breakfast. "I'm just a financial director at a small company. I'm not—I don't think you have the right person."

"Trust me, we do," the agent replied. He always said "we" never "I" as if he had the entire board of FBI staff with him or maybe it was just a looming threat that there were people outside with this guy, waiting to shoot Roger if and when asked. "You can decline but you'll never recieve this choice again. Working for us doesn't get offered much. And you'd also have to leave now to make it in time for our mission."

"What about my wife? My work? What about everything? I can't just leave."

"It will be taken care of."

"B-But what abou—"

"It will get taken care of, Mr. Sanders."

"Okay," Roger replied, looking down. "What's the mission?"

"Assassinating the president."

"What! I thought you were the FBI? No! No way!" Roger stood again, shaking the entire time as he did. His coffee wiggled around in the cup before spilling onto the surface of the table. Agent Ryan sat still for a moment before pointedly staring at the men across the street. Roger followed his eyes and sat down. "Okay okay, don't kill me. I just...I just—"

"Everything will be taken care of and explained but it is not the time or place." The agent folded his hands across the table. "What is your response, Mr. Sanders?"

"I...I...," Roger said, looking everywhere but at the agent. He looked over his shoulder and called to a waiter, "Can I get another coffee please?"

(tbc?)

new story of de week

enjoy :D