This was the least elegant operation Jones had ever been apart of.
It started with the operative trampling the target’s flower garden. It looked like a bull3 had been rampaging through it.
“Which bottle6 was it?” the operative radioed.
“The cognac. The target always has a glass of cognac before bed.” Jones replied, shaking his head in disbelief.
“Poison7 is in. I’m headed out.”
“Where the hell are his gloves?” thought Jones as they drove away.