It was a quiet, out of the way place. McCarthy didn’t mind. After everything, he had wanted a place like this, a place where he could be alone.
Grey streaks marked where the paint had worn away, subjected to years of wind and rain, and a soft wind rustled the dying grass.
Then there came the roar of an engine and a black car pulled up. McCarthy tensed as the doors opened and two men in dark suits, almost completely identical, got out.
“Mr. McCarthy,” one said. “Your country needs you.”
McCarthy sighed. It had been nice while it lasted.
Word Count: 100
This is for Friday Fictioneers. Thanks to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for running the challenge and Jean L. Hays for providing the prompt picture!
All About Writing and more 