Write about money, using the provided lines:
Beginning line: “Not everyone can be bought,” she said.
Ending line: He let the money fall onto the table and walked out.
So I played with the lines a little bit, and I worked with the story until I realized I didn't have internet access. I'm returning to Mitch and his path of vengeance.
I offer the following (late) in response: Cafe Borracho
“Not everyone can be bought,” Her hushed voice leaked from her grin.
Mitch smirked. Eva only ever looked out for Eva. She must’ve received a better offer. He leaned back in his chair, hand over his scotch glass. “That’s a shame,” he uttered. He watched two men enter the cantina and make their way to the back, charging the atmosphere with a sharp tension. “Are you losing your touch?”
She snorted and knocked back her tequila. “The Game has changed, Mitch. Someone else is making the rules now. Rumor is Marston is backed by someone the locals call Tobago. Nobody seems willing to double cross him.” Her hazel eyes drifted, losing intensity. “Remember that night in Bucharest?”
He nodded. Forgetting wasn’t an option. Too many lives were lost due to bad intel. The Agency never found the leak. Her tone, though, spoke of their hotel room, not the botched assignment. All that infernal waiting, stuck without backup for hours. He remembered she smelled of lilacs and opportunity. “What of it?”
She flinched like a battered cat. “Asshole. You just scratched an itch, that it?”
He raised an eyebrow as movement in the back caught his attention. The barmaid delivered drinks to the two men and scurried away, a little too rushed for his tastes. “Rich, coming from you.”
Her cold look slapped him. “I lost my innocence in Bucharest.”
Mitch groaned, “I’ll buy you lost your car keys once, but innocence? I don’t think so.”
“Okay, fine. I can’t fool you,” she hissed. “What game are you playing, coming down here? You’re burned. Your country abandoned you.”
“I’m going to kill Marston,” he leaned close, sliding his hand gently down her cheek. “I’m giving you the chance to be someplace else, for old times’ sake.”
“Spare me.” He felt the distinct pressure of a blade pressing against his inner thigh as she added more teeth to her grin. “You’re simply a means to an end.”
“I know.” He flicked his wrist, plunging his sleeve-concealed syringe into her jugular. She resembled a deer trapped in headlights, eyes wide with fear. “But the Game’s changed, remember? For me, this is personal.”
She slumped in her chair, the clatter of her knife resounded across the wooden floorboards. The two men in the back rose from their seats, but Mitch drew down. “Stay put,” he barked.
The tall one twitched.
The muzzle flashed, bright in the smoky cantina. The two men were thrown to the floor as the hollow points ripped through their heads. “Sorry about the mess, Pedro,” Mitch told the bartender. He pulled money from his wallet and tossed a generous handful to the table before he walked out.