The Fugitive

The night was black as death and colder than a gun. I awoke with the certainty that something had just made a sound—something that didn’t want to be heard. As silently as possible I slid from beneath my covers and climbed the wall to the ceiling where I clung, legs splayed to afford purchase— and waited.

After a time I was rewarded with a whispered snatch of conversation in a foreign language. Soviet bloc, certainly. Serbian, most likely. The fall of the U.S.S.R. in the mid-nineties disgorged hundreds of unemployed mercenaries upon the West. They were well-trained, efficient and merciless. I was not surprised my nemesis had decided to use them. The fact that they were in my apartment—in the next room, in fact—was unsettling to say the least and cause for immediate concern.

I knew why they were here. I had been followed for weeks. So far I had managed to elude them but it appeared my luck had finally run its course. I was alone, weaponless and at their mercy, with only my wits to ensure I would see the dawn.

A light scuffle outside my bedroom door betrayed the location of one of the intruders. He was careless. Swiftly he entered the room, couching low. I expected to hear the muffled sound of a silenced pistol and watch my down comforter erupt in quick blasts of feathers, but the mercenary did not shoot. He took the scene in quickly, somehow managing to overlook me as I clung tenaciously to the ceiling above his head. I held my breath and prayed.

The soldier moved to my bed, a muffled curse on his lips. He laid a hand upon the depression in the mattress I had recently occupied, finding it still warm. A whispered question from the room beyond my bedroom door—his companion wondering why I was not captured yet. Although my Serbian was a bit rusty, I distinctly heard the word “captured”. I knew then that they wanted to torture me. A cold sweat broke out on my body, threatening to make me lose my grip and plummet into the midst of these brutes. Better to die than to fall into their hands.

The soldier took his time, thinking correctly that I could not be far. He looked under my bed and in my closet. He did not look up.

Fatigue was making my arms and legs shake. I had not taken a breath in several minutes. Thankfully, I play the bagpipes and can breathe through my ears if needed ( a skill that comes in handy in other endeavors as well). A single drop of perspiration rolled down my forehead, coming to a bead upon my nose. I stared at it and used every ounce of willpower I possessed to keep my head steady so it would not fall on the mercenary below and betray my position.

At last, with another grunted curse, the soldier took a final look around my room and vanished through the door without so much as a silken whisper to betray his passage. It was a long time before I breathed again.

I knew their leader, The Generalissimo, was relentless and would not rest until he got what he wanted. These men or others like them would certainly be back. I could only resist them for so long. So I came to a decision.

I would give The Generalissimo what he sought. I would give to him that towards which he bent all thought and will rather than face such ruthless errand-boys again. As Dog the Bounty Hunter says, a life on the run ain’t no life at all.

An hour later I called my enemies to let them know they could find what they wanted in an unmarked locker in a nearby train station. I hung up before they could reply.

The new Angry Piper’s Book of the Week is now in their hands. Enjoy.