An Agent in the Empire State

The Empire State. River? Nope. County? Wrong. Tower? Wrong again. No, this was the Empire State Building, reaching as high as 1250 feet, as wide as—I stared at it for a bit—maybe a few buses? Elephants? I couldn’t decide which was bigger. Anyway, it was one of the two. Forty years running as the world’s tallest building (1931-1972, and then again after the World Trade Center was obliterated in 9/11) seemed to have brought it a few tourists, and I saw a few gawk and take pictures.

The sun glanced off one of the 6500 windows, and I flinched at the sudden bright light. Putting my arm above my eyes, I grinned. Today I was going to actually work there. Not as a businessman, no, but as my real identity. Of course, what kind of spy ever needed an identity? All they did was go undercover all the time. At least, that’s how is it was with me.

I remember what I was wearing: cargo capris, a blank green polo, and Plaid Converse. The cap that shielded most of the sun above me from my eyes was black with the Broncos logo on it. The chain I wore around my neck was that of a cross with roses intertwined within it; the only remnant of my father.

That was how I’d become an agent: It was a lifelong mission to replace my father, Agent Peter Schultz, Number 0079. After three years toiling in a military camp, then three more in an acrobatics group, and then another two in Eleventh Grade Remedial English, I was, at age 18, finally starting to fulfill my lifelong mission.

“Sir?” someone asked behind me. I turned halfway, spying a lady dressed in an utterly navy dress (complete with navy shoes, earrings, and [frighteningly] lipstick) stood there, her hands behind her and back straight. I blinked. “Um?”

“I have had word of you arriving here today. I am your escort.” She walked past me, and a wave of perfume tormented my nose. Was that…cucumber? My nose wrinkled. Smelled like a rotten one, but I decided it would be for my own good that I kept this to myself. I waved the air above my nostrils, coughing. The lady beckoned with one hand as she walked. “Come along. I don’t want to be late. I have a tour going on in about an hour.” Her voice had a slight wheeze to it, and I wondered if she had asthma. I pondered over this for a moment. Better not to ask, I concluded. She looked like someone who could come up and tug your ear and pull you along without hesitation. And trust me when I say I’d had enough of that.

I hastened to catch up, my brown leather satchel bouncing against my right hip. Holding on the strap with one hand, I followed the lady at a brisk pace. I attempted to blow a strand of white-blonde hair from my eyes, but it soon fluttered back to its previous place. I swiped at it with one hand, pushing it over to rest just in front of my ear.

She guided me to a glass door, and I opened it for her. She nodded, satisfied, and walked through without a simple “thanks.” That irked me, but I walked through nonetheless. The pair of us (pair meaning two random people, not a couple or anything like that) walked into a large lobby, with gold and tarnished gold-painted walls surrounding everything.

She stopped, and I nearly bumped into her from behind. My chin was an inch from colliding with the crown of her head, into that white, fluffy Afro of a hairdo. But I managed to pull to a clumsy stop. (Which is exactly why they called me a duckling of an agent.) Breathing out in relief, I shifted my satchel on my shoulder again while the cloud of rotten cucumber faced me. “Go to the elevator, 55th floor, second door to your left,” she instructed, looking at her watch. “I am late for my tour. Good day.” With that, she walked away.

I waited until she disappeared from sight. Then I murmured a “Yes!” and pumped my fist in the air. People eyed me. I put my fist down, trotting to the elevator. Aware of eyes on the back of my head, I waited for the elevator to open. Glancing to my right, I examined the mural of a glowing Empire State Building, with sunrays making the whole thing glow. Finally the sheer black elevator doors opened, and I stood by as four or five people walked out, chatting with each other animatedly. A tour guide broke off from them, and the tourists waved him goodbye, grins lighting up their beaming faces even more. Clicking my tongue against my teeth, I pressed the button to the 55th floor. The doors closed.

Have you ever had the feeling of your stomach falling to your feet, taking the rest of your organs with you? That was what I felt when I rose up that elevator. Man, that thing was speedy!

Ding! The doors opened to allow me to my destination. I sauntered from the elevator, walked down the hallway that stretched off to the left. The second door to my left wasn’t really anything fancy; really it was just like every other door. Except for the silver color that matched the walls. Not very classy, if you ask me.

I knocked. Shuffling sounded from inside the door; then a face appeared between a sliver of space between door and wall. He whispered, “Name?”

“Agent Jason Schultz, Number 0080.”

“Enter.”

The door opened, even if it was just a sliver more. I could fit my skinny frame through it, and that was enough for me.

As I slid through the opening, the door clicked shut. Three locks were switched, one a heavy-duty padlock, one a slider, and one a chain. All of them where checked over carefully by the doorman. He whispered, “Go on, Number 0080.”
The room was utterly black. Nothing was visible, including the table leg I managed to trip over. Making a face plant, I somersaulted up to my feet, rubbing my head where I was now sure a bump had formed. Still rubbing my head, I arrived in a small, rectangular room, all gray, all dull. But at least there was light for once, and no visible table legs for me to trip over. I sighed. Nothing really interesting was going to happen here; the most entertaining event would probably be someone spilling his coffee on his gray and dull suit.

“Number 0080?” a man quizzed gruffly. He was a burly person, and his suit fit tight on his muscles; I considered him to be a retired bodyguard, or maybe he worked undercover as a personal trainer. Whichever one was fine with me, as long as he didn’t plan to hurt me in any way. I admit, I’m a skinny fellow; compared to him, I would be small fry.

“Number 0010,” I replied, recognizing his face. Agent Luke Smith, Number 0010, basically the leader of everyone else in the room. Scanning the faces, I recognized three of the nine men that lined the rest of the oval-shaped table: Agent Carl Logan, Number 0065; Agent Chase Downs, Number 0048; and Agent Ryan Andersen, Number 0072. The other six, however, I couldn’t tell.

Agent Luke nodded. “Sit,” he commanded, gesturing with one gargantuan hand to an empty chair. I plunked into it, setting my satchel in between my feet. No way was anyone nabbing that from me. What was inside it mattered very much to my career; if I lost it, I was doomed to eternal military camp as punishment.

“Do you have what we need?” one of the mystery men asked. Blinking, I managed to reach inside my satchel and pull out a perfectly white laptop from its depths. Placing it on the desk before me, I opened it up, pressing the power button with my index finger. Beep ba beep beep, ba beep beep! The screen flashed into a login screen. I logged in to my name, typing in the password with expert fingers. Once my desktop appeared, I clicked the mouse pad on a file labeled “Important Info.” That was about as obvious as you could get. If anyone hacked into my name, that file was going to be the prime target.

“Here.” I slid the laptop easily along the smooth ivory table. “See for yourself.” The mystery man popped a jump-drive into the side of the laptop, tapped his finger on the mouse pad, and waited for a moment in silence. Then the jump-drive came out, and the man slid the perfectly white—but now with a variety of fingerprints—laptop to me. I turned the laptop off, slipping it back into the satchel.

Suddenly there was rattling noise from one of the vents. I was instantly on the alert, as I assumed I was the only one there who had the appropriate clothes on if I had to fight an enemy. The vent above us dropped from the ceiling, landing with a loud clang on the ivory table, along with bits and pieces of the ceiling. Out slid a woman in a completely black, sleek suit, perfect for sliding through vents and anything else that was metal and narrow. She landed on her hands and back flipped off of the ivory onto the ground. Next she stood straight, sliding off the black swimming cap that encased her head. Straight black hair with red highlights flew out and landed gracefully on her shoulders.

Agent Luck, Number 0002, stood before us. She had no last name; she was an orphan, and as loyal as a dog. Dog being a compliment. Agent Luck was tall, slim, and had legs the size of a horse’s. And about as strong as a rhino taking down a gargantuan tree. The suit fit her perfectly, complimenting every curve. A belt filled with all sorts of pockets that held every gadget and gizmo ever invented was placed around her waist, and knee-high black leather boots with heels covered her calves. I felt heat rising to my cheeks and I pretended to focus on rearranging my laptop in my satchel. Anything better than letting her get the satisfaction of seeing me blushing. I admit it: I’ve had a huge crush on her for years.

I saw Luck smile from the corner of my right eye. Shaking her hair slightly, she asked, “Jump-drive?”

“Right here.” The man tossed it to her. Luck caught it with excellent precision. Then she slid it into one of her knee-high boots. She nodded to him. “Thanks.” Next she walked over to me. “Ready to go?”

“Huh?” I answered, glancing up. “I’m going with you?”

“Yeah,” she replied simply. “First by air, then by train. And maybe by boat, we’ll see.” She grinned slyly. “We’re going to Cancun.”

“Cancun? For what?”

“Tell you on the way,” she answered, tugging on my sleeve. I picked up my satchel, sliding it over my shoulder, and pushed in my chair. I rubbed my cheek, trying to erase the blushing.

Agent Luke stood and saluted. “Good luck, agents.” We returned the salute, and I felt a lot like I was at the military camp again.

Then Luck pulled me to the window, taking out her grappling belt. She shot it up, and I hear it clank on somewhere above where it anchored itself. Tugging on it with one gloved hand, she beckoned. “Come on, slow-poke.” I sniffed, glancing back at the men. Being an agent is confusing; you take information to another agent, only to have it given to another agent that you were going with. I sighed. Oh well. Life is like that for me.

Fingering my necklace, I leaped out the window of the Empire State Building, the largest building in the world. The 6500 window reflected the light of the sun as we slid down.

I’m writing this from Cancun, inside a very deep underground headquarters. I hope I survive what comes next.

Signed by Agent Jason Schultz, Number 0080