Emilia Corbyn
By J. L. Young

A shadow fell across the nude body of a young, diminutive woman lying on a sand-dusted towel. “The Golden Gate is quite beautiful from here,” the human-shaped mass above said.

Annoyed by his presence, she didn’t emote. “I don’t mean to be rude, Mercer, but you’re in my sun.”

The man removed and cleaned his sunglasses. “We need you to do what it is you do, Corbyn.”

“I’m retired. This is where retired people go.”

“That was never official.”

She adjusted her sunglasses. “My work was never official.”

“A close friend of mine was outed by someone inside.”

“Sounds like an internal matter.”

“That’s why we need an external solution. Coffee?”

After she showered by the beach and dressed, they went to an outdoor eatery.

Moments after sitting, a server approached and took their order. It wasn’t long until the server returned, placed a plate with a burger and fries before the man, and rested a cup of espresso before the woman.

He removed a phone from his pocket and slid it over to her. She took a silent sip before slipping a finger condom on and picking up the device. He ate as she played a video game. The briefing was within the narrative of the game. She finished her coffee and left without a word.

The woman’s footfalls were silent as she entered a hangar. Inside, a Bombardier Global 8000 was undergoing preflight. A slovenly man exited the restroom, wiping his hands on his pants. Under his unkempt beard, his face brightened. “Emilia, what a pleasure to see you again.”

“Cleavant, the order?”

“On the plane.”

She climbed the boarding ladder. There were several young women already seated. “I already served a few of them drinks. They’re happy,” Cleavant said.

Emilia entered the cockpit. The Captain and First Officer looked at her as she said, “Heathrow, file the plan.” They nodded. She stepped out and closed the door behind her. Cleavant sealed the exit.
During the flight, Emilia watched as the young women danced exuberantly. She didn’t know what Cleavant told them to get them onto the flight, and she didn’t care to ask. She took to the back section and found the couch inviting. There, she drifted off to sleep.

At Heathrow, Emilia hired a Jaguar F-Type and drove aimlessly about several boroughs and parked outside a small flat. Inside, she unpacked and made a sandwich. As she ate, Emilia played another game on a laptop.

She checked the time and readied herself.

Emilia arrived at the Annual Charity Gala in Soho. The valet graciously assisted her in exiting the F-Type, and she proceeded to the door. She presented a counterfeit invitation and was promptly allowed to pass. Once inside, she selected an hor d’oeuvre and a flute of champagne. A visual scan of the room revealed the operative. She wasn’t direct in her approach and settled alongside him. “I miss Echo Lake this time of year.”

“Yes, the bass love the shade,” he replied.

“You’ve been compromised. Dance with me and leave. I’ll take our dirty uncle home.”

“I won’t leave until this is done.”

“If you refuse, I am to make you a star on the wall. I’d rather it not come to that. Leave this to me.”

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