I was sitting on my porch reading a book on my iPad. Behind the house there is a pond and each summer night the frogs' chorus drowns out any other noise. So I broke out the thought journal and wrote this.
Nature's song flowed through the deathly still swamp. The rhythmic sounds were hypnotic, as if being led by a conductor they would stop and start in perfect unison. 3 nights he sat listening to life's chorus surround him, oblivious to his presence. That's how he was trained, that's how he functioned, in complete silence. When the frogs and birds are unaware of you starting at them from 2 feet away a passing human had no chance.
The drop off in such a remote, rugged location was necessary. The package required such measures, information that would change the course of a silent war is very valuable to everyone. Simply sending a car to a dark, downtown parking garage was not an option. This exchange had to be perfect, precise, no room for any errors. The only dependable option was him. A man in their employ that always delivered and left no trace. An invisible man, no one has ever seen him or spoken to him. Correspondence was over anonymous, secure electronic communications, monies transferred to Swiss bank accounts, packages delivered intact.
When they contacted him for this job his only condition was he chose the drop off location. A remote, rugged bog in Northern Minnesota, miles of grasses, muck, scattered trees, an area only accessible by foot or noisy ATV. Two ways that are not going to come up and surprise you. It's the last place on the planet the nosy intellects at Langley would ever suspect. 3 days and nights he has sat in the muck, getting the lay of the land memorized, learning the patterns of nature, waiting for the package to arrive.
The instructions were simple, one man, one package, one set of GPS coordinates where the payment would be waiting. The men would never meet, although he would be watching. After the exchange if the package was not left or incomplete there would be plenty of time and open space to send a .50 caliber reminder of what it would mean to cross him.
He sits waiting, scanning the horizon, invisible to nature, patient. He summons the control for days, focusing on silence. A control that can be shifted into any thing at anytime. Like down the scope of his Barret rifle toward 3 approaching men that don't know how to follow the rules.
Time to turn the page.