The last time, everything fit in three duffles. That had been convenient. A whole life in three bags.
This time, it threatened to be more than we could possibly carry. The bags just piled up, filled to bursting even after we’d gotten rid of everything we both decided we were willing to lose. The dustbins out back were full too.
“How’d they find us this time?” she asked as we piled bags into the car. “We were careful. Fake names on everything.”
I slamming the boot shut. “They’re just good.”
“It’s been ten years,” she muttered. “You’d think they’d give up.”
“That’s the Agency for you,” I said.
Our neighbor John wandered over, smiling and waving. I’d always liked John: his bad pullovers, his awful hair, his little garden.
“You two moving out?” he asked. “It’ll be a shame to see you go.”
I saw the gun hidden in his pocket and reached for my own.
I was faster.
John toppled over. Another enemy agent neutralized.
“In the car,” I said. “Now.”
We left a few bags behind, but we couldn’t wait any longer. Not when they were so close.
Now we knew why the Agency never mentioned the retirement scheme when they recruited us.
Word Count: 197
This is my entry for the fifth week of Flash Fiction for the Purposeful Practitioner, run by rogershipp.