The agent quietly approaches the palatial compound. The estate's defenses consisted of a pair well trained doberman pinschers, razor wire and a sophisticated alarm system but these only slowed him slightly. He had faced these challenges before and they were only a mild annoyances to the agent. In fact, he was slightly irritated that the challenge wasn't greater. Deep down, he felt that if he was to be called in on a job, it should be a true test, something that no common thug could handle. In the end, this was a pedestrian task, one step above awaking from bed in the morning and brushing his teeth. However, this was his job tonight and it would be performed perfectly as always. After all, he was The Agent.
Brent Hubbs sat at his desk a happy man. He had finally broken through the impenetrable lead like veil shielding all morsels of information within the Tennessee Football Program. For months, years, he had been passing off stale chips of knowledge to to rabid fan base that subscribed to his pay site. A mention of an injury here, a hint of discord there but nothing really worth $9.95 a month, not if he was honest with himself. He knew he was the best in the business, he was confident that while others may provide more information, their "sources" were as reliable as a recruiting promise and held all the credibility of an Alabama GED. However, tonight all of that would change, in tonight's War Room, he would drop the bombshell that would forever change the way the world saw him and the Tennessee Volunteers.
Brent savored the moment, gently swirling his Chivas Regal before taking a slow satisfying pull. He began to type furiously. It was as if his knowledge was pouring though his fingers directly into the void that was the internet. For the first time in a long while, he truly felt like a journalist. Typing this revelation gave him a satisfaction that his estate, fat bank account or many romantic conquests couldn't begin to equal. The journalist was so engaged in the process of creating his magnum opus that he didn't notice the shadowy figure creep into the room behind him. If only he had glanced up to check the clock to ensure it was truly late enough on Thursday night to issue his prose to the masses, he may have caught a glimpse of the gun slowly rising to level in his direction but he was too deep, too engaged. he typed "There are some road trips where they don't even see the stadium till game day. Friday, the Vols will take 45 minutes or so at the speedway for a walk-thru where they will get on the turf and make sure they have the right cleats and there's not any issues equipment wise or with the field. There won't be any chance to..."
The dart made a slight whisper as it flew across the room. Brent had the briefest moment of startled surprise as the sharp point pierced his neck but then the chemical cocktail quickly pulled him into darkness.
The agent stepped to the glowing laptop and read what the unconscious man had written. He hadn't yet reveled anything, this was good, very good. This meant that the journalist could live. The agent didn't care one way or another about life or death but he did know that completing this job with no casualties would mean a healthy bonus. The agent quickly banged out the rest of the article, carelessly including several typos and confusing sentience structures to ensure believably. Before slipping out of the house, the agent gently placed the man back in his large four post bed. He knew the man wouldn't remember what had happened that night or the information he had intended to share so carelessly with the public. However, the agent wondered just what would have happened if the public had found out. He shuttered as a cold chill scurried down his spine. His job complete, he drained the remainder of the writers whisky, let out an appreciative sigh and left the way he entered.
Brent Hubbs sat at his desk a happy man. He had finally broken through the impenetrable lead like veil shielding all morsels of information within the Tennessee Football Program. For months, years, he had been passing off stale chips of knowledge to to rabid fan base that subscribed to his pay site. A mention of an injury here, a hint of discord there but nothing really worth $9.95 a month, not if he was honest with himself. He knew he was the best in the business, he was confident that while others may provide more information, their "sources" were as reliable as a recruiting promise and held all the credibility of an Alabama GED. However, tonight all of that would change, in tonight's War Room, he would drop the bombshell that would forever change the way the world saw him and the Tennessee Volunteers.
Brent savored the moment, gently swirling his Chivas Regal before taking a slow satisfying pull. He began to type furiously. It was as if his knowledge was pouring though his fingers directly into the void that was the internet. For the first time in a long while, he truly felt like a journalist. Typing this revelation gave him a satisfaction that his estate, fat bank account or many romantic conquests couldn't begin to equal. The journalist was so engaged in the process of creating his magnum opus that he didn't notice the shadowy figure creep into the room behind him. If only he had glanced up to check the clock to ensure it was truly late enough on Thursday night to issue his prose to the masses, he may have caught a glimpse of the gun slowly rising to level in his direction but he was too deep, too engaged. he typed "There are some road trips where they don't even see the stadium till game day. Friday, the Vols will take 45 minutes or so at the speedway for a walk-thru where they will get on the turf and make sure they have the right cleats and there's not any issues equipment wise or with the field. There won't be any chance to..."
The dart made a slight whisper as it flew across the room. Brent had the briefest moment of startled surprise as the sharp point pierced his neck but then the chemical cocktail quickly pulled him into darkness.
The agent stepped to the glowing laptop and read what the unconscious man had written. He hadn't yet reveled anything, this was good, very good. This meant that the journalist could live. The agent didn't care one way or another about life or death but he did know that completing this job with no casualties would mean a healthy bonus. The agent quickly banged out the rest of the article, carelessly including several typos and confusing sentience structures to ensure believably. Before slipping out of the house, the agent gently placed the man back in his large four post bed. He knew the man wouldn't remember what had happened that night or the information he had intended to share so carelessly with the public. However, the agent wondered just what would have happened if the public had found out. He shuttered as a cold chill scurried down his spine. His job complete, he drained the remainder of the writers whisky, let out an appreciative sigh and left the way he entered.
