“Agent Green, I don’t care if you’re scared to hold the gun. Grab it and just wait behind the pillar, now.” I commanded her and shoved the gun into her hand.
What sin had I committed in my past life to deserve being assigned with this absolute ditz?
“But Agent J, what if I shoot myself?” she cried.
“It’s on safety mode, Agent Green.”
We were in an empty parking lot, waiting for our target; Walden Emory. He has been embezzling money into a secret account for nearly three months now. But he was untraceable until recently. Our job was to finally catch this guy, arrest him and get back all the money.
She was a constant chatterbox and whiner, this Rachel Green. It’s as if she swallowed an engine that just wouldn’t die out. I tried to shut her up as much as I can, for the sake of our lives. “Agent Green, keep quiet! Otherwise you’ll give our positions away! Do you want Emory to start running again?” I asked, eyeing and hinting at her poor choice of shoes.
In a (fake) melodramatic gesture, she squealed in a whisper, “I can’t run in my new Miu Miu pumps! They’ll break in an instant. They’re not meant for running, you know!”
It was stunning that she couldn’t see the irony of it.
“Yet, you wore them. What a brilliant choice.” I said with an undertone of sarcasm. Funnily, that shut her up. But not without an ‘hmph!’ of annoyance.
“I didn’t know we would be running today.” She mumbled, and I slapped my forehead in disbelief.
Rule #1 of the FBI: 50% of our job is running.
As I refreshed her memory of this, she looked at me in shock, “I don’t remember being taught that!”
I then reminded her that they mentioned it quite a few times in the seminars. “Well,” she smiled sheepishly, “Some of us became bored, so we went to get something to eat! We were probably on a break when they spoke about it, then.”
How did Rachel Karen Green ever get accepted into the FBI? The question keeps me up day and night.
By then, we were already waiting for Emory for an hour. Agent Green, unsurprisingly, was falling asleep on the job. She was getting on my nerves, and I hit my gun against the pillar to wake her up. Emory was here.
“Alright, Green. Wait for my signal. We’ll follow him to the elevator and book him in there. He’ll be cornered, he won’t escape. Got it?”
She nodded, and for a split second I believed that after ‘working together’ for a few disastrous months, with all our fights and side comments, we could actually work together.
How wrong I was, when I saw her sprinting after Emory in those awful heels of hers.
“Walden Emory, stop! You’re under arrest!” she shrieked. As suspected, he put a step on it and started running for his life. I began to run for the elevator, and I ordered, “Green, go for the stairs!”
For a 50-something year old businessman, Emory sure was fast. Luckily, I was faster and caught him at the elevator. Green followed in hot pursuit, crying, “My heel broke! My heel broke!”
Dismissing her cry, I whipped out my handcuffs and restrained him. He tried to squirm his way out and repeatedly yelled out that we have no proof of what he’s done.
As if his statements roused the confidence within her, Green stepped up and looked at Emory straight into his eyes. “As a matter of fact, we do have evidence of your embedazzling money.”
“Agent Green, that’s not even a word.” I rolled my eyes.
I corrected her with a patience I didn’t know existed within me, “Walden Emory, you’re under arrest for embezzling thirty-five million worth of cash into an unknown account, for what we suspect is use in the black market.” and progressed to recite the usual Miranda rights. Mid-way, however, she interrupted me and waved her broken shoe in one hand, “You owe me a new pair of Miu Miu’s, Emory!”