Smoke Gets In Your Eyes

 

The Spy stood in the Engineers dark room and waited. By now, he knew the Texan's habits like the back of his hand. Soon the man would be done dropping off his equipment in the workshop and would head back to his quarters for another night of sulking and avoiding people.  The sad imbecile needed a change of routine and some fresh air.  This was definitely doing the man a favor.

The sound of footsteps came up the hall and stopped in front of the door followed by the jingle of keys. The Frenchman stood up straight and remained very still as the door was unlocked and the American entered the room and turned on the light switch. He was sober this time, though his face still possessed the drawn exhausted features of one who had given up on life.  The man shut the door behind him with a heavy sigh and slumped on the edge of his bed.  Oblivious, he began untying his work boots, the floorlamp by his bed moving soundlessly nearer.  The man spotted something out of the corner of his eye and turned his head, but he wasn't quite fast enough.  The blackjack came down, delivering a sharp tap to the head and the man listlessly slid off the bed to the floor with a solid thud. The BLU Spy removed his mask and returned the black jack to his coat pocket.   

Stepping around the Texan he opened the door a crack and peered into the hallway. Just to be cautious, he activating his cloak before walking down the hall. The base was quiet, there was no sound or sign of anyone around.  All according to plan, the Frenchman smiled to himself. The RED team had conveniently and mysteriously received a letter and a voucher claiming they were the lucky winners of a contest for a  free steak dinner for eight from a restaurant fifty miles away. While this was suspicious,  it seemed that any concerns anyone might have had  were outweighed by the promise of food that had not come out of a can or tin. Though  it was a shame that they were not going to make it to the dinner, the Spy chuckled to himself picturing the mercenaries stranded on the side of the road due to engine trouble. They should have made it about fifteen miles out before the engine stalled, or at least he was fairly sure, they might make it to twenty if they were lucky.

With free run of the base the Frenchman retrieved a wheelbarrow from the courtyard. It had been laying on its side next to a wooden cow,  a relic from when RED had been trying to pretend the base was a farm and not in fact a base of operations for a personal war. It had never seen a load until now.  Returning to the personal quarters he tried to use the wheelbarrow to scoop the man from the floor though all he achieved was to scoot the man a few inches along the floor. Finally he with some effort managed to roll the heavy  Texan into the cart - more or less - one of the man's arms seemed determined to hang out the side and his leg was at an alarming angle.  Once the man was in the cart close enough to his liking the Spy wheeled his load out of the Engineers room, switching off the light and shutting the door behind him, and whistling as he strolled down the hallway.

The stairs down to the courtyard proved little difficulty. The Spy barely slowed down as he pushed the wheelbarrow in front of him, the Texan made involuntary little grunts as he was bounced down each step all the way down to the bottom. Once down,  wheeled his the cargo out of the side gate and out behind a barricade of empty crates where his Vespa was parked  out of sight so the gleam of the metal wouldn't attract any attention.  He roughly dumped the wheelbarrow's prone contents into the rarely used side car. Or attempted to, at least. The Engineer, though unconscious was seemingly determined to protest his treatment. His legs refused to tuck into the side car properly,  the Spy swore as he had to grab the man by his shoulders and - with much grunting and snarling of effort -straighten then twist him so he fit into the seat a bit better.  When he was finished, one of the Texan's arms was pinned behind him he was slumped at an odd angle as he'd slid further down off the seat into the sidecar and the Frenchman was certain that his knee shouldn't be bent like that but at least none of his limbs were dangling in any way that could slow down the scooter.  

Once satisfied with a job well done, the Spy leaned on the side of the scooter,  pulled out his cigarette case and lit one.  He breathed in the smoke, savoring the taste and enjoying the moment.  There was a groan from the side car beside him,  the night air began stirring the Texan.  Quickly, before the man could fully come to, the Spy had his blackjack out of his pocket once more and conked the man over the head again. The silence returned again. Much better. Sufficiently being reminded of the task at hand he put both the blackjack and the cigarette case back into his jacket pocket and mounted the Vespa.  The engine came to life after some sputters and the Frenchman and his load began to putter from behind the crates and down the road away from the base.