Under Pressure
338 Words
I pulled away from headquarters and merged back into traffic.
The search radius had already been expanded.
Transport terminals.
Hotels.
Clinics.
Anywhere an eighteen-year-old girl with nowhere to go might end up.
It wasn't much.
But it was a start.
My phone rang.
The screen lit up.
Supervisor.
I answered immediately.
"Sir."
"I've just gotten off the phone."
I waited.
"They're losing patience."
I knew exactly who they were.
"This should have been finished yesterday."
"Yes, sir."
"Explain."
"The target vacated the residence before surveillance arrived. We're expanding the search area—"
"That's not what I'm asking."
Silence.
"Explain why this operation is still active."
My grip tightened slightly on the steering wheel.
"She escaped."
"She escaped yesterday."
...
"You've eliminated targets with military protection."
"Yes, sir."
"You've completed operations in less time under worse conditions."
"I have."
"This is one untrained civilian."
Another silence.
"Why is this different?"
I searched for an answer.
None came.
When he spoke again, his voice remained calm.
"Resolve it."
A brief pause.
"Or I'll have someone else do it."
The line went dead.
I lowered the phone onto the passenger seat.
The road stretched ahead, but my attention wasn't on it.
Another operative.
Another operative wouldn't hesitate.
The outcome would be predictable.
The assignment would end.
I drove for another few hundred metres before pulling into an empty roadside parking area.
The engine idled for a moment.
Then I switched it off.
Silence.
I leaned back in the seat.
This wasn't bad intelligence.
It wasn't poor planning.
It wasn't a lack of resources.
The delay started with me.
Yesterday, the target was within reach.
I hesitated.
That single moment changed everything.
Now the operation had expanded.
More people were involved.
Pressure was building.
And if I failed...
Someone else would finish what I hadn't.
My fingers found the silver ring on my right index finger.
It turned once.
I looked through the windshield.
The entire operation traced back to one moment.
One mistake.
...
If she hadn't taken that photograph...
- Writer
