A woman and two men, late thirties, share a crawling elevator ride down four floors. Tension pressing the walls inward, the enclosure tight but temporary. The woman stares at the numbers as they light up on the descent - the men stoically facing forward. The doors open, they are met by a man in sunglasses wearing a dark grey suit, flanked by two male agents in all black attire.
He marches them down a long, dimly lit corridor - the three follow behind with the agents in tow. Reaching the end of the hall - the lead man opens a door and stands aside, allowing the others to enter.
A cavernous basement that looks like an empty parking garage.
At its center, a long conference table with three folding metal chairs - one at each end, one at the middle.
“Find your names.” the lead man announces.
The three guests approach the table, looking for the appropriate seats via small paper name cards.
The first man is seated at the far right end, the woman at the near left and the second man - in the middle.
The first man and woman each have an agent standing behind them. The dark grey suit takes a seat on a wooden bar stool situated across from the second man. He locks onto him through his shiny black lenses.
“Shall we?” he begins - then removes his shades, shoots a glance to each agent and returns his scrutiny back to the middle man.
Both agents swiftly engage the person seated in front of them with garrote wires. Each person lifted out of their chair, grappling wildly with the brutal attack. The initial gasps immediately replaced by stabs of retching, then gurgling. Eyes bloodshot, legs kicking.
The second man jerks backwards, slamming both hands onto the table - his head swivels, taking in the unnerving execution of two strangers.
The man across from him maintains unbroken eye contact as he reaches into his jacket and removes a .357 revolver - setting it gently onto the table in front of him.
The second man is in hysterics, unable to manufacture any words - only grunts and whimpers.
The agents dispatch their victims, withdrawing the garrotes. Their bodies slump forward onto the table ends. The assassins return to their positions.
The surviving man, eyes tearing - chest heaving, makes every attempt to catch his breath amidst the unforeseen chaos.
“What the fuck?” he screeches.
The dark grey suit gives a nod to the agents, they leave the room.
“Do I have your attention?” he asks.
“Fuck!” the panicked man cries.
The suit picks up his gun, returns it to a shoulder holster and rises - moving casually towards the dead man.
“What did you see?” he questions, standing beside the fresh corpse, then taking unhurried steps in the woman’s direction.
“Two people were murdered!” he barks.
“Traitors.” the calculating man corrects, returning to the middle of the table.
“Former traitors.” he clarifies.
The second man still taking in the ghastly scene, peering between the two bodies.
“They had gone into business for themselves, selling classified information - very important information, gathered here - to foreign entities.”
The seated man’s attention now firmly affixed to the suit standing across from him.
“Do you understand?”
The man gives a barely noticeable nod in the affirmative.
“We start tomorrow, 0900 hours.”
The dark grey suit takes strides to the exit and leaves the room.
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