​The late afternoon sun was always deceiving. It always seemed warmer than it was. The weird shadows it cut on the snow belied the fact that it was bitter cold. As he trogged over light snow blanketed the ground, he steadied himself on one of the many bamboo trees in the forest. Random freak weather changes were nothing new, but this was one such act of nature he could live without. Reaching the far side of the stand of trees, the sun reflected on the open field leading to his destination.
Once he crossed the field, he turned to view his footsteps, which showed the direct path he’d taken from the edge of the bamboo stand to the small hut he stood in before now. He cursed, hoping the accumulating snow clouds would cover his tracks when his pursuers reached the field. Shivering, he pushed the door of the ramshackle cabin open and stepped into the small room.
Leaning against the door, he felt his breath begin to slow down. He stood for a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dim light that filtered through the small windows set high on the walls.  Small piles of snow littered the far end of the floor. A glance at what passed as a ceiling, mostly the rafters and thatch that made up the roof, showed where the wind and rain made small holes in the roof and let the elements drift in.
At least he was out of the weather and wind for now. He didn’t dare fire up the old wood stove in the corner of the room. So, he scrounged around the small hutch near the stove and found some old bread and dried beef that still looked edible.
As he ate, he considered that he couldn’t stay here. Soon, they would discover that he’d escaped and come looking for him. Glancing at his watch, he figured he still had time before they noticed him missing. 
Earlier in the morning, Jason Cramer had slipped out of the secure wing of Wentworth, a minimum-security prison that he’d been sent to for allegedly stealing millions of dollars from the company he worked for. Shivering as he nibbled on the stale bread, it crossed his mind that he’d be warm back in prison but not safe. Tony Roman had already tried to kill him twice. 
Tony Roman was a vicious bastard, despite what he would like you to think. Because of his influence with state and local officials, he’d managed to have his charges reduced and was sentenced to a minimum-security prison instead of San Quentin or Folsom, where he should have been. He’d conned most of the prison staff and administration into believing his stories and that he never actually hurt anyone. But the prisoners and some guards knew the truth.
Tony believed that Jason knew where the missing money was. Worse yet, he thought he deserved some of it. Why? The best reason Jason could think of is it was there. He’d had nothing to do with the company or the money and had only found out about it when Jason arrived in the prison. Tony made it his business to know everything about Jason and his life before Wentworth, suspecting, despite saying he was innocent, that Jason knew where the money was. Tony wanted his share, just because. 
The sudden snowstorm gave Jason the perfect opportunity to slip out unnoticed. Getting past the guards and the outer perimeter fencing had been ridiculously easy—too easy, even for a minimum-security prison. The feeling in the pit of his stomach wasn’t just hunger but fear that he’d been set up.
It would be dark soon, and the temperature would drop even more. Fear and cold sent shivers through him, and he peered out the small window.  The unpredictability of the weather made his chances of escaping even more dubious.  But he had to try.
Jason stepped back outside into the blanket of light snow. On a work detail outside of the prison, he had seen a farmhouse, and he was sure it was nearby.  Pushing onto the nearest narrow blacktop road, he headed toward the farmhouse he’d seen. It was nearly dark when he found the farmhouse. A single light shone from the front porch. Even in the half-darkness, it was a beacon of safety. At least, he hoped it was. Fortunately, he’d escaped while wearing his recreational sweatpants and shirt, so he didn’t look different than anyone else. 
As he knocked on the door, he didn't have a plan. He figured he’d play it by ear and hope for the best. There was the sound of activity inside as someone turned off the television and came to open the door. Cracking the door, she held it firmly, ready to close it instantly. Jason could see little more than the mop of unkempt hair on her head and the collar of her bathrobe.
“Hi. Um, I need some help. You see, my car broke down, and my phone died. Could I… use your phone and come in and warm up?” He tried to look harmless and safe.  
She carefully looked him up and down and stepped back from the door, opening it wide. “Your car didn't break down. You’re from the prison. Jason Cramer.  I wondered If I’d get to meet you. Come on in before you catch a death of cold.”
Jason’s face turned white as the blood drained from it. Blinking twice, he recovered and stepped into the living room. He stood by the closed door as she walked to the center of the room.
“You know me?”
“Well, not personally, until now, but I followed your trial and was there when they sentenced you to prison. I hoped they would send you to Wentworth.
As prisons go, it's a pretty easy place to be.”
‘“You're probably hungry.” He nodded yes. 
“Well, come on, I don’t bite. Much.”  With a wave of her hand, he followed her into the small kitchen. 
“The bathrooms over there.” He nodded his thanks and headed for it.
Closing the door behind him, he leaned against it and tried to steady his breathing. Never in his life had he been so scared.
He tried to piece together what she’d said as he did the necessary things. She knew him, had been to his trial for embezzlement, and wasn’t the least bit scared of him, which scared him. He took longer than usual before coming back out to the living room. The house was tidy, although the furniture was old. There was a comfortable-looking couch and nice club chairs. He headed into the kitchen, where she was standing next to a small chrome table.  
“Sit down and eat, and I’ll tell you how I know you. My name is Mary—Mary Long.” She handed him a plate filled with food. Jason dug into the food, hungrier than he realized.
She gave him a few minutes, then started talking. “Jason, I followed your case because it is similar to one close to me, and frankly, I don’t believe you stole the money.”
“Okay, you better start at the beginning.” 
Mary went to the living room. He watched as she opened a drawer at the top of the cabinet and pulled out a folder. She returned to the table.
“My father, Deven Long.” She handed him several printouts of articles from the folder. Jason glanced at them as she continued.
“The police suspected him of embezzling several million dollars from his company, which he founded long before I was born. He didn't need to steal money. He’d made more than enough money for us to live in style.  He wasn’t the only person with access to the accounts, but the other company officers claimed they had nothing to do with it, and the Feds couldn’t pin it on anyone else in the company.” She paused a minute, composing herself. “They charged my dad, tried to claim he had gambling debts, but they couldn’t prove that. He lost everything, the company, and most of his money for legal fees, and….” This time, her eyes filled with tears. She stared into her coffee cup like she hoped to find answers in it.
Jason read the articles carefully. She was right. The evidence against her father was thin at best, but not finding any of the money, just that he had access, was enough for a jury to convict him. Rereading some of it, he saw similarities between his and Deven Long’s cases. 
“So, you came to my trials?”  She nodded yes. “Okay, what about me? Now?” Jason put the papers back in the folder and handed them to her.
“I help you escape.”
“Huh?” He could only manage a short response.
“You’re innocent.  I know it. You shouldn’t be in jail.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence. But it's not that simple. With the money still missing, I’m on the hook for it at the very least, and….”
“Then let's find the money.” She sat upright on the chair and leaned forward, almost spilling her coffee.
“It’s not that simple. A team of forensic accountants couldn’t find any trace of it. So how are we supposed to find it? I appreciate the idea and would love to find the money, but....”
Mary leaned back in her chair as his reality settled in on her.
Jason cleared the dishes, placed them in the sink, and tossed the remains of their cold coffee down the drain. He turned toward her, leaning against the counter.
 “May I see those files again?” 
“Sure.” She got up and handed them to him.
Laying them on the kitchen table, he sat down and carefully reread them. After several minutes, he found what he was looking for—a name he knew—Clayton Russell. A name like that stood out. He’d been the CFO of Devon’s company, and he was also tied to his case—granted, only barely, but it was enough.
 Looking up at Mary, he grinned. “I found our common thread.”
 She sat across from him. “What? Who?”
“Clayton Russell was your dad's Chief Financial Officer. The papers mention him as testifying that he had no, but he had access to parts of the accounts for his division. He was also the CFO of my company when my dad ran it. I was only fourteen when the company fired Russel for mishandling funds. My dad and the Board of Directors wanted the whole thing to disappear. I’d forgotten about him.”
“You think he took our money?”
 “I think he might have, but we need to prove it and find the money. Meanwhile, they’ll be looking for me.”
“By the way, just how did you escape Wentworth?” 
‘It wasn’t hard.  I work in the library three days a week, so I reported this morning. Then it started to snow, and it hit me. I could probably get past the guards at the side entrance. From past bad weather, I knew they wouldn’t be in a hurry to go out in the cold and snow. Security is pretty lax there, and I’ve seen them stay inside during their shift if the weather is bad. I took a chance that they weren’t paying attention. I’d checked out both the interior and exterior cameras' blind spots and already knew how to avoid them. I waited until two p.m. when my shift ended, acted like I was going to my cell, and hid in a supply closet next to the side door. I waited for a guard to come inside, and when he passed, I slipped behind him, grabbed the door before it closed so I didn’t set off the alarm, and ran.”
“You took quite a chance.”
“I figure the guards wouldn’t miss me until after mess when they do a head count. Which should be about now.” Jason glanced at the wall clock. It just stuck seven p.m., when prisoners were supposed to be in their housing units for roll call. “It will take another ten minutes for them to realize I’m gone and the rest of the hour for them to go through the video footage for the day and see where I got out. Then they start looking for me,” he explained.
“But won’t your tracks lead them here?”
“I don’t think so. It’s been snowing a lot harder in the last couple of hours. They will check the main roads and start a door-to-door manhunt.”
Mary brought them fresh coffee and leftover birthday cake. As she sat down, he asked the question that scared him.

 “The immediate problem is, what are you going to do with me?”
He hadn’t told her about the attempts on his life. Or that he suspected they had made it easy for him to escape. Knowing some of the guards, there was a very good chance he’d never make it back to the prison alive.
She shrugged. “When they ask if I’ve seen anyone strange around here, I’ll tell them the truth. I haven’t left the house all day and invite them to look around.”
 “So where am I?”
 “Oh, you'll be right here. You’re my cousin from up north.”
“There is one problem with that. They know me and what I look like.”
“How long do you figure until they start house to house?”
 He glanced at the clock. “Couple of hours at the most.”
“Come with me.” She got up and headed for the stairs.
He followed her upstairs, where four doors led off the hallway. Mary showed him to one of the bedrooms. She opened the closet door.  “My dad's old clothes should fit you. I’ll be right back.”.
He was sorting through the clothes when she returned holding hair dye. “I know the box has a woman’s face on it, but my hair color is dark brown. It will make your lighter hair look like mine.” She was about to leave. “Hollar, if you need help, don’t forget to do your eyebrows.”
Twenty minutes later, he yelled for help, and Mary came to assist. One hour and a half later, he dressed in one of her father's suits, complete with cuff links and a tie tac to hold the silk tie in place. The finishing touch was the watch he put on. He’d never been a clotheshorse, always wearing good quality off the rack. But now, wearing a bespoke suit, he understood. Even though the suit didn’t quite fit as well as it should, it felt good. 
Mary whistled softly as he reached the bottom of the stairs.
“You look good—sexy even.” She purred, looking him over. “My father never looked that good in that suit.”
Thanks was all he dared to say.
“Now, let's get your story straight. You’re my cousin from up north. Let's keep it vague, but if they push it, Lewiston, you’re in real estate, which explains the suit. You’re down for a few days for a birthday party. There was one, my sister’s kid.”
He repeated the story several times to get it straight. Then it dawned on him he didn’t have any ID. They would want to see something.
Jason mentioned it to Mary, and she disappeared back upstairs. A few minutes later, she returned with a wallet and glasses.
“You’re James Leroy, a cousin on my mother’s side. When they get here, put on the glasses.”
“Who is James Leroy?”
“She smiled. “My former fiancée. He left in a hurry. Funny, you look a bit like him.”
~~~
They had cleaned up the kitchen and the bathroom, where they’d dyed his hair. Mary got an old suitcase out, packed a few things in it, and then turned down the bed as if Jason had been sleeping there. Downstairs, she turned off all but two lamps, and they were watching television when there was a knock at the door. They looked at each other—showtime.
Jason headed to the kitchen while Mary took her time answering the knock. First, she turned down the TV and slowly made her way to the door. She cracked the door as she’d done with me, holding it close to her and not letting them see inside.
“Yes?”
“Evening, ma’am. We’re sorry to bother you at this late hour. I’m Officer Jones, and this is Officer Smith from Wentworth Prison, just over the hill. I’m afraid we’ve had a prisoner escape.”
“Oh really, is he dangerous?” She tried to sound confused and scared.
“He could be if he’s desperate. We’re talking to anyone who lives on this road. Did you see anything unusual or out of place late this afternoon?”
“No, I haven’t been out of the house all day!”
“Ma’am, our orders are to check every house personally to make sure he’s not hiding inside.”
She sighed in exasperation and opened the door wide so they could enter. 
“Thank you, ma’am. We need to have a quick look around to make sure you’re safe.”
Jason sat at the kitchen table, a cup of coffee in hand and the remains of a piece of cake on a small plate in front of him.
 She called out, “James, there are some men here looking for someone.” 
 They spotted Jason about that time and approached him.
“You are?”
“I’m her cousin, James Leroy. I came down for our nephew's birthday yesterday.” He spoke in a very deep voice.

 “I see. You have any ID on you?”
“Why sure.  Just a minute, officer.” He pulled his wallet from the inside pocket of his suit jacket and started to hand it to Jones. Smith had gone upstairs to check the rest of the house.
“Please take your ID out of the wallet.”
“Oh, sure.” He fumbled with it briefly, trying to remove the old ID from its plastic pocket.
 Handing the ID to the cop, he waited while he read it and glanced at the picture and him.
After a few seconds that felt like an eternity, he returned the ID to Jason and turned toward Mary.
 “Be careful. This guy is dangerous. Stay inside and safe until we catch him.”
“Oh, I will. We’re not going anywhere until you tell us it's safe.”
Mary let the two cops out the front door and watched as they got into their car and drove away into the dark. Leaning against the door, she took a deep breath.
“Wow, that was close. Did you know the guards?”
“No, fortunately, I’ve never seen them. They must be from another prison and called in after the escape.”
“Ok, what do we do now?”  Mary busied herself in the kitchen, cleaning up my plate.
“Not sure, I’ve never escaped before.  For now, we sit tight. They won’t be back tonight. Those two just wanted to get this over and get out of here. Hopefully, they won’t check up on the fake ID. Meanwhile, it's late, and I’m tired.”  Jason leaned against the wall near the stairs. By now, Mary had turned off the television and locked the front door. 
Glancing at her watch, she confirmed that it was indeed late. “The bed in the extra room is comfortable, or so they tell me. No one’s slept in there in ages.”
“You trust me?”
“Yes, Jason, if you are going to do something, I think you’ve done it before. Besides, I don’t have any choice, do I? I am now an accomplice to your crimes.”
“No, I don’t guess you do.” Jason followed Mary upstairs and into the bedroom.  
“It's not much, but….”
“It's fine and much better than I’m used to. You lock your door. I’ll be fine here.”
 They shook hands awkwardly. She almost leaned in to kiss him but pulled away. He fumbled with her hand and held it a little too long. They managed to say good night, and she left.                                                  
It seemed strange to sleep in a quiet room. Back in prison, there was never any real quiet or peace. Even when you were alone, you weren’t. There was always someone nearby, either a guard or another prisoner, and at the very least, cameras everywhere. Well, almost everywhere.  
~~~
Jason slept better than he had in a very long time. Waking up in a strange room without the sounds of doors banging or shouting was a treat. He rose early and made coffee, and Mary joined him a short time later. As she fixed breakfast, he wrote a list of things he wanted her to buy.
He gave Mary specific instructions. She had to wear a big floppy hat and a coat that would hide her figure, sunglasses, and gloves. She was to go to several different places and buy pay-as-go phones, paying cash for them and some other items he requested. And no matter what, she was to not look into a camera anywhere. Before she left, she gave him access to her computer.
While she was gone, he installed a VPN and torrent browser. Once he felt reasonably safe from prying eyes, he started to work finding Clayton Russell.
Personnel paperwork for her father's business listed Russell’s last position as Chief Financial Officer, along with personal information that allowed him to trace his social security number. Soon, he had confidential personnel files on Clayton from every company he had ever worked for.  Jason was surprised he wasn’t retired and didn’t believe for a moment that Russell wasn’t setting himself up to steal more money from his current employer. Either way, it was time to find his money.
He realized finding where and how Clayton hid all the money he’d stolen from various places was harder than he thought it would be. Off-shore and Swiss accounts are held in the strictest confidence, and getting them to tell you anything is almost impossible.
He heard a car pull up. Mary. As he instructed, she pulled the car around to the back door. While he helped her unload the car, he told her what he’d found out.
She told him she also had a surprise for him. Along with the six phones purchased at different places scattered over town, she had stopped at a relative and picked up something. She handed him a metal box holding two guns and boxes of ammunition for each.
Jason had thought about getting guns but dismissed the idea as too risky and hard, given his circumstances. He also really wanted to avoid using them if possible. He knew from experience that if they came out, you’d better be prepared to use it.
Both guns were revolvers. One was a Twenty-two, a cheap, no-frills target gun with a fixed sight and a blued finish. The other was a slightly nicer version of the same gun, with an adjustable rear sight and a heavier, longer barrel. Both would do the job, especially at close range. Mary refused to tell him who had given her the guns, only that it was a trusted family member.
He had found Clayton Russell's address and passport records online, showing he’d traveled to the Cayman Islands earlier in the year. While he never got the actual account numbers, he did find that he more than likely had several accounts in offshore banks whose specialty is tight security and hiding money. As for Clayton, Jason had his address, and Mary’s car had GPS. They would find him.
They loaded her car with food, clothes, and the burner phones. Jason turned off Mary's phone and removed the SIM card, rendering it untraceable, he hoped.  If the police came back for more questions and found her gone, they would start looking for her, on the assumption that he’d kidnapped her.  He wanted them to be out of there before they called his bluff. Mary had filled the tank on her morning run as instructed. They did not need to stop anywhere on their way out of town.
The news of his escape had made the local radio and news. After he made it through the woods surrounding the prison, they had no idea where he'd gone, and Jason was happy to keep it that way.
~~~
Clayton Russell lived two hours away, and the drive was boring, which suited Jason just fine as he needed time to think. Russell had done well with other people's money. The estate was on an exclusive side of town and required you to be a millionaire to buy a run-down shack. His place was far from a shack.
They parked on the street, walked to the front door, and pressed the doorbell. Getting in to see Clayton was easier than he thought it would be. Russell opened the front door.
Jason remembered him as a younger man and was surprised at how he had aged. Clayton was tall, but the years had bent him, and his muscular physique was now scrawny. He waved off a young man dressed in scrubs. “I don’t need you hovering. I’m fine. Go back to your game shows.” His demeanor hadn’t changed as he greeted them gruffly. “Who are you?”
“You don’t remember me, do you, Clayton?”
 “No, but I remember Miss Mary here. It's good to see you.” He tried to shake her hand, but she pulled it back and scowled at him.
“You damn well ought to remember me. You put my father in jail and destroyed his company.” 
The hate in her voice seemed to shock Russell, but he recovered quickly.  Turning toward Jason, he didn’t even offer his hand. “I hear you’ve been a bad boy and flown the coop.” He taunted.
“I didn't steal millions of dollars, disappear, and leave a company to die slowly and hundreds of people out of work.” 
“The law says you did.”
“We both know better. I’ve found your bank accounts and all your assets hidden in offshore islands, including a couple of Swiss accounts.”
“So? Why does that matter?”
“It's time to pay up, pay back what you owe, and take your knocks.”
“I’d rather not.  I wasn’t implicated in any of this.  They investigated me and found nothing. So, I’m free and clear. Now, I want you to leave, or I will ask my assistant to escort you out.”
“Actually, no. We know that you worked for Mary’s dad’s company and then my family's company, and both her day and I went to jail for embezzlement. Only we didn’t do it. You did. Because you worked for both companies and the Cayman bank accounts, I think the Feds will figure this out.”
 Clayton pale and stumbled back into the house. We followed him into an office, where he collapsed into a chair.
“What do you want?”
“Justice for Mary’s father and me. Baring you turning yourself in, which I don’t expect you to, I will give what I know to the Feds and ask for a new trial. I’m a wanted man, and Mary here deserves restitution for all the pain and suffering you put her through.” Jason let it hang there. Clayton leaned back in his chair and started to laugh.
Anger raged in Jason, and he leaned over the desk, intending to grab Russell’s shirt, when a choking sound cut off the old man’s laughter. Russell grabbed his chest, and the color drained from his face as he gasped for air. The old man gurgled, and he slumped against the chair, dead.
Jason checked Russell’s pulse and turned toward Mary. “Shit. He’s dead, probably a heart attack.” He had to act quickly. “Mary, you weren’t here when he died. Go into the bathroom and leave plenty of prints in all the right places.” 
“Okay.”
While Mary was in the bathroom, he began to search the room. Knowing that a numbered bank account in Switzerland or the Caymans needed an extremely long code to claim it, he was certain Russell likely couldn’t remember it. He must have written it down. Jason began to search the room, finding nothing on the desk, in or under the drawers, or in the files. Mary came out of the bathroom while he was standing in the middle of the room, trying to decide where to look next.   
 Then he spotted pictures hanging on the far wall behind a sofa. Photos of destinations like Bora Bora, London, Paris, Sydney, and he had a hunch.
He took each picture down and looked at the back of it. He was right. “Look, these have to be the codes for his Cayman accounts written on the back of each picture.” He’d found a small notebook and wrote the numbers down using the alphabetical lists of cities. He placed the notebook in his jacket pocket and ushered Mary out of the house.
They walked out of the office into the foyer and out the front door, hoping the assistant wouldn’t see them. Acting much calmer than they felt, they managed to drive away before all hell broke loose.
Jason had her turn into a strip center parking lot several miles down the road.
Mary gripped the steering with a death grip. She glanced at him at him. “What just happened?” 
“He had a heart attack and died. There was nothing anyone could do. He was dead in seconds. That's probably why he had a nurse or whatever, that dude there was. I told you to go into the bathroom because our prints were all over there. I want you to say you were in the bathroom when he died. That way, hopefully, they can’t try to pin anything on you.”
“But you didn’t do anything.”
“I know, but the cops won’t see it that way. I’m an escaped felon. You have to tell them I forced you to bring me here to see Clayton Russell, but you don’t know why. Then I forced you to drive me to the airport, and I let you go.”
 “But I don’t understand.” 
“Mary, I’m trying to protect you. You were the victim here. I force you to help me escape. You understand?”
 “Okay. But what about you?”
“Hopefully, the numbers I got off the back of the pictures will let me into his hidden bank account. I want you to lie low for twelve hours. Find a place to park where no one will notice you, and then contact the police and tell them I kidnapped you. Tell them you don’t know what happened to me after I told you to drop me off.  When they come to see you, and I’m pretty sure they will, you were scared of me and what I might do to you. You had no idea who Russell was or why I wanted to go there.  When he died while you were in the bathroom, we both panicked and ran. Which is true.”
She repeated what he’d said while they headed for the airport. The nearest airport was a small regional one that only handled short flights, but that was enough for him to get lost. 
As he was getting ready to get out of the car, he turned and faced her closely.
“Listen, Mary. When I get settled, I’ll send it for you. That is if you want me to.” She nodded yes. “You’ll know it’s me when the message comes.” She nodded again. Jason leaned over, kissed her gently, and slid out of the car and disappeared into a crowd.
                                                        ~~~~
Jason's instinct was right to create the cover story. Mary told the police that Jason had shown up at the house after he escaped and that he had threatened her when the officers came to the house that night. Then he had forced her to drive him to Clayton Russell’s house, but she didn’t know why. She was shocked, and so was he, when Russell had a heart attack.  The police pushed her, convinced she knew more, but she stuck to what Jason told her to say. Jason disappeared, Russell died by natural causes, and the story disappeared.
Six months later, a large brown envelope postmarked from the Cayman Islands arrived in her mail. Mary knew instantly that it was from Jason. Trembling with fear and excitement, she tore open the envelope and removed the contents. Inside was a one-way, open-dated airline ticket for Marge Lewis to an island in the South Seas. Included was a passport with her real passport photo, a visa for the island, a state driver's license, and a social security card—everything she needed for a new life.
~~~
Jason waited at the airport. The flights only came in once a day, and he would park where he could see the small plane land, hoping she was on the flight. He had successfully accessed the Cayman account and discovered more money than expected. He’d found someone through the dark web to make new documents for himself and Mary. He mailed hers and a one-way plane ticket and waited. Two weeks later, his wait was over.
~~~
Marge Lewis reclined on a lounge chair under a palm tree, the deep blue ocean waves lapping the beach. She smiled as she sipped a Margarita, Bossa Nova music drifting on the breeze while sitting with the man she loved. This was the life. 

 
The 603 was late.
I didn’t blame them one bit. The sudden, unexpected winter snow had played havoc with everything.
But I’d made it. The train pulled up to the station and slowed down, and I scanned the driveways to the station, looking for a dark green Land Rover. 
As I stepped onto the platform, trying to get my bearings, I saw lights flash on and off quickly. Looking closer, I noticed it was the Land Rover. I didn't do anything stupid like wave or shout. I pulled my coat tighter around me, buried my hands in my pockets, half marched, and half plowed through snow and wind to the car. As I reached the passenger side, the door opened.  
My job in security meant I often had to meet people in strange places. Usually, these meetings were set up well in advance, and the person I was meeting was vetted, and I knew who I was meeting and why. However, occasionally, I met people at the last minute with little or no preparation. The handwritten note in my daily briefing pages suggested that meeting Lieutenant Gray at the Lancaster station at 5:56 p.m. and taking the 603 train there would be advantageous. I should look for a dark green early model Land Rover. That was all it said. It did not indicate the matter of which it would pertain to or who Lieutenant Gray was.  I made a short note about the meeting on my daily page and left in time to get the train.
In my travels among the many branches of government up to the King and his inner circle, whom I’d dealt with a few times, I had heard rumors of personal Requests by the King to do certain things that bypass normal channels. It was said they were called Crown Orders, but only in hushed tones and in confidence. No one had admitted to getting one or that they were real, much less saying what the orders were or if they carried them out. But several unusual things that could be attributed retroactively to Crown Orders had happened over the years.
“Lt. Gray?” I asked as I shut the door, cutting off the fall of light snow following me into the car.
He nodded yes and started the car. We drove silently for a minute while the heater warmed the cold air I’d let into the car.
“Your note said that you had information that would benefit me?” I pushed a little.
“I was asked to give you this and get your response.”
He reached behind the front seat, pulled out a long, thin wooden box, and laid it on the console between the seats. There was a gold inlaid seal on top of the polished wood. A closer inspection revealed that it was the King’s Seal. I sucked in a breath when I realized these must be Crown Orders.
Throughout my entire life in His Majesty’s Service, first as an army officer and then as a civil servant, I never dreamed I would ever receive such a thing. It was rumored that a few empty boxes suspected to be Crown Orders vessels had been discovered in the belongings of several high-profile political types after they passed.  All assumed that only people in a high political place would receive such things.
So here I was, sitting in a green Land Rover with a chap who called himself Lieutenant Gray, but I doubted it was his real name or rank. But I didn’t push it. 
He motioned to a thermos resting on the floorboard and said there was coffee if I wanted it. I did. I poured about a half cup and waited for the steaming liquid to cool while I took a closer look at the box.
It was long and thin, made of light wood, and the top was fitted to the box inset with edges on the top. I traced the contours of the seal with my fingertips, still shocked. Four red and blue ribbons wrapped around the box and were sealed to the box on all four sides, making it impossible to open the box without breaking the wax seals.   
Lieutenant Gray spoke. “If you open that, you’ve accepted whatever orders are there. You can hand the box to me, and I’ll return it unopened and take you back to the train. No questions asked. It will be understood you refused the Order, and no one will mention this again.”
I sat back in my seat and thought about what he’d said. I could refuse to take the box and thus the Crown Orders, but what would the ramifications of that be?  Would it make a difference later if I refused them? Or would it not matter one way or the other? I knew the answer to that. I wouldn't have been given them if there wasn’t a specific thing that only I could do. I thought about my daily routine and the people I encountered and tried to think of any reason the King would want me to do something for him. He could easily reach out to anyone and, through a mediator or a PM, get word to them that he wanted to see them.  No, that wasn’t it.
There was only one way to find out.
I pulled my small penknife from my jacket pocket and fiddled with it until I opened the tiny blade. I glanced at Gray, who had pulled off the road while I opened the box. I felt guilty about destroying the wax seals, but I had to know what the Crown Orders were.
Carefully slicing the ribbon, I then sliced each of the four small wax seals that sealed the lid to the box. The cover was a tight fit, and I had to pry them apart slightly with the blade of my knife. On the top was a letter bearing Crown’s Seal embossed into the fine linen paper.  
Carefully extracting the letter from the box, I unfolded it and began to read.
 
Dear Ian Fleming:
The box you have in your hand is a personal request from your King to execute certain actions that I feel that you alone are in a position to do.
It is understood that these are only requests, and you are not compelled to do the tasks requested. However, if you fail to do them, there could be ramifications far beyond what you imagine for King and Country.
If you carry out my request, certain allowances will be made in the future regarding your future and that of your family. If you try and fail, for whatever reason, I will have no choice but to deny any knowledge of your actions or this letter. 
The importance of your mission cannot be overstated.  Below, you will find the particulars and any relevant information and documents you need to complete the request.
Charles R
 
Laying the letter to one side, I reached into the box for the file folder marked Top Secret and slipped several papers from the files. A glance revealed each page was marked Top Secret, the highest level of security in the British government.
The first page was a summary of his Order, listing three people with a brief description of each and a small picture. The brief said that each of the three individuals was under pressure to cast votes against their beliefs, and in doing so, the results would be averse to the country's best interest. My remit was to remove the threatening influence from their lives so that they could serve the county’s needs. The orders indicated a timeline that I needed to accomplish the task.
I was warned not to mention the King or my orders or to present myself in any official capacity. That I already knew. Having run such operations before, I knew how it should work, and sometimes it didn’t always go according to plan.
The document indicated that Lieutenant Gray was to be at my disposal and service for any help I should require. It was the last line that grabbed my attention.
You are hereby authorized to use any force necessary.
A shoot-to-kill order told me all I needed to know.
The rest of the papers provided detailed information on each person in question.  I scanned the documents to get an idea of what I had to work with. 
All three targets were Members of Parliament. Penelope Porter, who had ruffled feathers in a variety of circles, and Edward Crandell were members of the House of Commons. The third target was Lord Robert Duncan, a member of the House of Lords.
The matter in question was scheduled for a week from today. They all had made public statements in support of a new proposal to fund lower-income housing and strengthen the support system for single parents and those in very low-income brackets so they could find work and have the childcare and help they needed. 
I read about the proposal up for debate in the papers and watched a few debates on television.  No one denied the need for the support. However, the discussion of how to pay for the plan and where the money would come from had been a topic for heated debate in parliament and the public media. All three of the people listed had come out in favor of the bill and had made recommendations on how to pay for it. 
However, from what I am reading in these documents, it now seems that behind the scenes, there had been more than the usual political pressure to vote one way or another. Things had gone from pressure to threatening and violence. The Metropolitan police had been notified, had the incident reports, and tried to sort it out. However, their hands were tied in ways that mine weren’t. When threats of major violence in the UK were issued by groups opposing the bill, the King felt that matters had become too violent for regular channels and had issued a Crown Order.
I read through the detailed documents and then returned the papers to the folder. I turned to Gray, who had spent the time tapping lightly on the steering while I read.
“Well, Lieutenant Gray, how do you feel about kicking some ass?” 
He grinned and started the Rover. “Where to sir?”
***
We started with Penelope Porter. According to the intel included in the dossier, she felt her house was being watched. Gray drove to her London residence, located in Belgravia. Fortunately, she lived in a townhome on a street with parking, and even more fortunately, he found a parking place.
Five minutes after we arrived, a man exited the house and left in a car parked in front of the house.  From our records, the man was Porter’s husband. Before he was out of sight, a man got out of an old Renault, ran across the street, and put a long pipe into the mailbox. 
I yelled at Gray. “Stop him.” He floored the car and blocked the Renault as it tried to pull out of the parking space. We jumped out and pulled the man out of the vehicle.
“Do you want me to retrieve what he put in the mailbox?
“And get your arm blown off?  No, call 999 and tell them you just saw a man put a pipe bomb in a mailbox at her address. Meanwhile, we’ll take this gentleman for a ride in the country.”
“How’d you know to wait?”
“Because that's exactly what I would have done. Wait for the targets to leave and then plant the bomb.”
We drove in silence for about an hour.  Every so often, there would be the sounds of kicking and grunting from the back of the car, but we ignored it. The longer we went, the more uncomfortable he would be. There wasn’t enough space for him to stretch out back there, and I knew his legs and arms would be cramping up, and he’d probably have to piss too. I hoped he’d wait until we got to where we were going. Thinking back to the old days, he wouldn’t be the first to piss while in transit. 
I knew this wasn’t the boss, just another flunky. Someone was out there calling the shots, but hopefully, our bomber would give us something.
We arrived at Southend-on-Sea, a resort town on the Thames Estuary. A trusted former colleague retired five years ago and now lives here.  I needed this guy on ice, whether he spilled what I needed to know or not. I called Harry and quickly told him what I needed. He had the garage door up when we arrived.
Harry pulled the garage door down behind us, and Gray and I tugged our guest out of the Land Rover and tossed him onto the floor. He rolled over, moving his legs, trying to get feeling back.
“Done?”  I asked as he settled down. He nodded yes. Harry untied his feet, and we helped him stand up. Then I hit him. Hard. He went back down, almost hitting the door of the rover. 
We picked him up again, followed Harry to a room at the back of the house, and pushed him inside. Gray rummaged through his pockets and found his ID. One Dexter Edwards, Slough.
“Well, Edwards, you picked the wrong mailbox to stick a bomb in, but that’s the least of your problems.”  I handed the wallet to Gray, who stepped out of the room to make a phone call. 
“I know you're just a funky, doing what you're told. So, who told you to put a bomb in MP Porter’s mailbox today? This is the only time that I am asking nicely.”
He grunted at me and pulled away, flopping down on the narrow cot.
“Fine, I’ve got all day.” I walked out and locked the deadbolt. Gray was just getting off the phone.
“Well?”
“I’ve got the info on our friend in there and who he works for. 
He showed me the screen on his phone.
“How long would it take to go get him?”
“Couple of hours. Probably a little more. Oh, and I have a care package for you.”
He led me back into the garage and pulled a big cooler case out of the Rover. A shoulder holster lay on top, holding a Walther PPK, .380. I slipped it out and dropped the magazine. And reinserted it into the butt of the gun and ran the slide chambering a round.
“Thanks,” I shrugged off my jacket and slipped on the holster.
“This goes with it, and he pulled out a set of earplugs and several loaded magazines. “There are two thermoses of coffee and some food and extra blankets in there.”
“How’d you know I’d take the job?”
“It was a hunch. I also read your file and knew you played rough.” He pulled a battered old baseball bat from the rear floorboard and smiled.
“Go get his boss and get back here.”
“You going to be okay here?”
“Yeah. Harry is one of us, just retired. He bought this place but didn’t want out of the game, so we use it as a safe house, and we do some interrogation here as well. I’ll be fine.”
Harry and I had spent some quality time with our prisoner, who never stopped swearing but said nothing. I hadn’t used the baseball bat—yet. He yelled for water and food, but we locked him in the safe room. He wasn’t going anywhere. He could wait.
We then caught the news, which was abuzz about the pipe bomb found in the postal box at MP Porter’s house. The media was all over the fact that she was a proponent of the poverty relief proposal coming before Parliament. The police were looking for our friend. He’d been stupid enough to use his car, and after we grabbed him, they found it, and his prints were all over everything. I knew what the procedure would be. They would tear his place apart and probably find where he made the bomb, but would they find who set him up?
It was three hours later and almost dark by the time Lieutenant Gray returned with his new passenger. Lt. Gray opened the back of the Rover, pulled a male out, and dropped him to the ground.
“I see you have our friend.”
“Yeah, he put up a good fight, even had to stop once and quiet him, but he lost every time.” 
He was awake now, and the cussing and squirming coming from the floor between us confirmed that. I took the same swing at him that I did at Edwards, but this one managed to steady himself. That told me a lot.
Gray told me his name was Micheal James and how he had to strongly persuade him to get him in the Rover. This one was a tougher customer than the first one. 
I had ignored Edwards the entire time we’d been here, which hopefully made him even madder. I was pushing him mentally to see how far he’d go. He'd probably break easily if he got hungry and thirsty enough.  
Gray needed to make a phone call, so Harry and I dragged Micheal James into the safe room. I watched Edwards closely as we brought James in. His eyes widened, and I knew if James didn’t talk, Edwards would.
Harry had everything I needed in this room. The walls, floor, and ceiling were constructed of concrete. There was a cot, toilet, overhead light, spotlight, and floor drain. Harry was quite serious when I asked about the drain. Easier to hose off the blood, he had answered. I was really hoping for no blood tonight.
Harry forced Edwards to sit in a chair in the center of the room directly under the spotlight. Circling him, I noted the bespoke suit with all the right touches. A fancy watch and the details that had until a few hours ago made him look the part of a respected lawyer serving as an MP in Parliament. But now his suit was wrinkled and dirty, the tie hanging loose, and his neatly styled hair was a mess. His hands were tied behind him, and he watched me warily.
“Michal James, recently, you have been applying pressure to the Prime Minister and several members of parliament to stop passing a bill that would fund and provide low-income housing and other support services for indigent and low-income, single-parent households.  This pressure has been more than the usual political crap you guys do all the time. Threats have been made, even a bomb planted, and there are reports of stalking and harassment to get members of Parliament not to pass this bill.”
He turned his head, refusing to look at me—a sign of guilt.
“I have to question why this is such an important matter to you and your colleagues who do not support helping the people who need it the most. This matter has become so visible that the police have visited you several times and all but arrested you for harassment.  I fortunately don’t have the legal constraints that the police do.  I need to know why this bill and its financing are so important to you.”
I stopped my circling and stood in front of him.  
Michal James leaned back and looked up at me. The arrogance on his face made me want to take the baseball bat to him out of general principle.
“And who the hell are you? I’m a member of Parliament. You can’t do this. I’ll have your head for this.”
“I can, and I am. I can do anything I want. My job is to get you to stop the harassment and threats you have been making and let Parliament do its job unhindered. Tell me why you are doing this.”
He continued to glare at me, and I picked up the bat. “I need to know the big deal about that bill, the financing, or something else.” I whacked the bat against the floor, pleased to see him flinch. “Tell me.”
Lieutenant Gray stuck his head in the door and motioned me to join him outside.
“It seems our Michal James has some problems of his own. From what I can tell, without getting too deep into it, sources say he owes money to some big gamblers here and in the States. And it seems he’s been funneling money to pay them from some of his committees. Committees that fund the same programs that the bills up for a vote. None of it has been confirmed, but it makes sense if he has been stealing from his committees and covering it up. When an audit is down to reallocate funds, well….”  Gray shrugged.
Now I had something. That all of this was because this fool had a gambling problem that angered me. I returned to Michal James.
“How much do you owe?” 
“Owe?”
“To gamblers and loan sharks both here and in the States. What funds have you been stealing money to pay them?  That’s why you opposed the bill. You knew if they passed it, your creative financing would come out, and you’d be exposed as the crook you are.  Right now, you call off your dogs and stop the threats so they can vote as they choose. After that? Who knows?” I slapped the bat against my leg.
Michal James looked down at his feet and sighed.
“I’ll call them off, but you have to let me go.”
“I’ll be happy to let you go. I don’t want the Metropolitan Police to be denied the pleasure of arresting you.  It’ll come out as soon as they start auditing your accounts. However, you’re staying with us until after the vote.”  I handed him a burner phone. “Start making the calls.”
“What do I tell them?”
“Tell them to leave people alone, or we will come after them.”
 It took several phone calls, some of which got heated, for him to tell his cronies to lay off the members of Parliament and the Prime Minster.  I took the phone from him.
“There. I did what you asked. I called off the dogs, and those fools are free to vote as they wish. Now, what about us?”
“You are staying right here until the vote is over.”

Michal James quieted down after the phone calls. He knew his fate was sealed.  Edwards, the bomber with pages of form, continued to swear and was miserable to deal with.
We spent the next few days watching the news closely for any more threats. According to Lieutenant Gray's sources, all the people James called had been placed under surveillance.
The vote in Parliament went off without a hitch, and the bill was easily passed with some minor modifications about financing.
We were all ready to call it quits. We tied up and gagged our prisoners and put them in the back of the Rover with a tarp. Michal James was released in a busy part of London, looking like he’d been on a week-long drunk. Edwards was left tied up outside a local police station, along with a thumb drive detailing Micheal’s activity.
Lieutenant Gray dropped me off at the train station just in time to catch the 603. It's time to return to my real life and my real covert job.
I never saw him again or learned his real name and who he worked for, but he left me with a phone number. If I ever needed anything, I was to call.
When I got home, I burned the Crown Order documents and kept the box. 

Off-Book
​“A project or mission that is not officially sanctioned or has an official record.”

 
Officially I’m in the South of France, sunning myself on the Riviera, and at least a dozen witnesses will swear they saw me. A document trail shows that I flew over on Air France, and I hired a Jaguar for the week. After flying in, I made a few casual acquaintances and told them I was going on a driving trip across France for several days, being very vague about where I was going and when I’d be back.
However, that was only a cover. I drove into the night until I reached a small clearing in the middle of nowhere and hurried aboard a small plane that took me back to where I had just left. My double would continue my trip, making sure to stay away from people and only be seen from a distance.
Part of me wished I still were driving through France, but there are certain jobs only I could do. I “borrowed” a car from a local car dealer, but I would return it before anyone missed it. I was parked next to the pier, waiting for them to arrive.
The lights from Artie’s Bar and Grill reflected off the water. I considered going back in, but the stench of beer and whatever they were smoking was enough to give me a migraine and drove me out the first time. I waited in the car.
About one a.m., a small light appeared on the horizon and blinked for barely a second—my signal. A few minutes later, a small watercraft eased out of the shadows and bumped against the sandy beach near the pier’s pylons. I shifted my pistol in my hands and waited for them to climb out of the boat.
The last thing I wanted was gunplay because a gunshot would echo for miles. I didn’t want to be discovered or deal with unexpected dead bodies—too many problems.
Officially we had nothing to do with the escape of a war prisoner and his return to his homeland, but wheels had been set in motion several weeks ago that guaranteed that he would be returning. The only problem was that no one currently in the company knew what he looked like now. It had been years since he’d gone under deep cover, and intel revealed he’d changed his appearance voluntarily several times since then. Upon capture, his captors tortured and disfigured him even more.
I was the only one left from the original training crew who knew him well and would know things only he’d know. It was my job to vet him or kill him.
Two figures emerged from the shadows of the pier. Silhouetted against the moon and water, they were easy targets if one had a mind to take them out. At this point, I hoped that I could avoid having to kill who I hoped was my closest friend.
Leaning against the car’s front fender, I had my gun in the shadow but ready. 
One man spoke as he approached me. “Nice night for a swim, eh?”
“Yes. If you enjoy freezing your ass off,” I countered with the response to the passphrase.
A cool breeze blew in off the water as he spoke. “You have the necessary papers?” 
He pulled a plastic pouch from inside his jacket, handing it to me. I read enough of the enclosed documents in the full moonlight to tell they were real.
The second figure hung back just behind the man I was talking to, and I spoke. “Lenny?”
He stepped forward, taking off his cap. “Roger, it’s good to see you again.” He pulled me into a hug. I let him wrap his arms around my shoulders and tried to remember what I could of our days.
“You know I have to vet you, make sure you’re Lenny Storm?”
He nodded. “Yes, ask me anything you like.”
We got into the car. I had him slide into the back seat while I got behind the wheel. Turning around in the seat, I asked him, “Remember Betty Summers?”
“Yeah, let me think, the name sounds familiar.”
“Should remember, you dated her for almost a year. “
”Yeah, that was before she got into the Mensa program, and I wasn’t good enough for her.”
I had been studying all the old records from back in training to remember as much as I could. I had to pull out something more obscure. If he were a trained agent, he could bullshit me all day, and I’d probably never realize it. There had to be a tell to show me he was the real Lenny. We made small talk on the drive back into town and to the motel where I had a room. He seemed to know all the old gossip and who had been doing what with whom. 
Once in the room, I could see the damage they’d done to him. His face had healed, but he looked like a stranger to me, not my oldest best friend. I could tell by how he got out of the car and moved that he was in pain, but he never said a word. I tossed him a big bottle of painkillers, and he grinned and thanked me. While he took a handful of pills, I considered what to do next.
“Lenny. It’s time for the hard questions.”
Easing himself down on the bed across from me, he eyed the pistol still in my hand. “You going to put that away?”
“I’d like to, but…”
“You’re still not sure who I am.” I nodded yes, and he continued. “I get it. I wouldn’t trust me either.”
We sat and talked for the next several hours. Topics included old instructors and the missions we worked together right out of training. He seemed to know everything he should. But something still wasn’t quite right. There was a lingering doubt in my mind that he was the real Lenny. Something he’d said or hadn’t said didn’t ring true, but I couldn’t put my finger on it.
Finally, I sat up straight and aimed my pistol at his head. “You’re not the real Lenny Stone. You’re a very good copy. You studied everything, did your research well, and even found out stuff no one else knew. You almost had me fooled.”
His face suddenly turned hard, and he sat upright and tensed up.
“You went through hell for nothing. Getting your face mangled to pass as Lenny, but you’re not him.”
I picked up my phone and hit a button. “Control, this is Zero-One Twenty-Three on the rescue mission. It’s a NO GO.”
“Terminate,” was the response, and the line went dead.
I tossed the phone to one side and screwed a suppressor on the end of the barrel. Leveling the pistol at “Lenny,” I asked if he had any last words.
“What gave it away?”
“The real Lenny wouldn’t have hugged me in a million years.”
Thud times two, and “Lenny Storm” lay dead on the bed. I made another phone call, and within an hour, no trace remained to show that we’d ever been here. Another hour later, I was on my way to the South of France. Sun on the beach and maybe fishing from that beach.
Sometimes this job sucked big time.

All that Jason saw were the trees and the narrow road that ran between them. The gnarly trees covered the road so thoroughly that the sky wasn’t visible beyond them. Fog covered everything, making the trees even darker. A cool breeze made him shiver, adding to his sense of dread.
Two turns ago, he had been on the main road. Having followed directions, he found himself looking at a road that seemed to go nowhere. He took a deep breath and thought about how he had arrived there.
Jason had run across her several times. Each time she seemed distant as if she were in her world. To a certain extent, we all live in our own world, but she carried it further than most. Everyone called her the Crazy Lady because she was always talking to herself, and that was the least of it from what he had been told. The consensus was something had happened years ago to push her into her own head.
Jason took what she told him with several large grains of salt, making appropriate comments and nodding as needed. He usually ignored her ramblings.
She told him she knew how his Laura had died. That got his attention.
She had died mysteriously several years ago, and the authorities never discovered what killed her. The sheriff found her body on this road, frozen with a look of fear on her face.
Rumors had filled the small town ever since then, including the most popular one that Jason had killed her. The police cleared him when witnesses and the GPS confirmed his alibi that he was across town.
One rumor was that Laura had been seeing someone, but he tended to doubt it. The most popular rumor was that something unnatural had scared her to death. That was impossible to prove either way, but it hung around the longest—either way, he needed to know who and why she died. When the town’s Crazy Lady told him she knew what happened, he listened.
Crazy Lady told him to meet her outside of town on the old County Road 695 at dusk that night, and all would be revealed. The road wasn’t on his GPS, and it took several maps before he found it. The road was abandoned and no longer maintained. However, using her directions, he found it.
Jason edged his car down into the depths of trees and shadows slowly, stopping every few feet to look around some, but all he saw were trees, leaves, and shadows. He shivered. The road looked like it was out of a scene from a horror movie. No wonder they stopped using this road. It was enough to scare even a horror fan.
Several hundred feet deep in the woods, he thought he saw movement. Stopping the car, Jason turned off the engine.
Jason looked around the old road, lined with gnarly trees, orange light drifting through the branches. He was drawn to the spot where the police found Laura’s body. The forest was eerie, but nothing had changed since he arrived, other than the presence of something or someone nearby.
He heard the rustling of leaves and the movement of air behind him. He spun around to find the Crazy Lady standing not far from him. He felt blood drain from his face as he realized Laura was standing beside her, alive.
“Laura…?”
His Laura spoke. “I’m no longer the Laura you knew, but her ghost. You killed her when you told the ghost to haunt her.”
“I did no such thing. I never talked to any ghost.”
Crazy Lady cackled, “Who did you think you were talking to at the bar that night?”
“Some old bum that was bombed out of his mind and is probably dead by now.”
Laura shook her head. “That bum was a ghost, trolling for someone to haunt. You told him how you wanted me to die so you could inherit my family’s money and business.”
“I was joking and making conversation. Just killing time and dreaming about how I’d handle the business if it were mine. I didn’t mean a word of it.”
“Then why say it to a stranger?”
“It was a bad joke.” The winds blew harder and the air got colder as the trees appeared to bend closer to the ground. Jason shivered as if he were in a freezer.
“You’re telling me that he believed me and killed you because I asked him to do it?”
Laura’s ghost approached him.
“Yes, he did. And now it’s time for you to pay for your transgressions.”
The last thing he remembered was a wave of frigid air hitting him and Laura floating above him and hearing the Crazy Lady’s frenzied laughter.
Hikers found Jason’s body frozen with a look of fear on his face. Just like Laura’s body had been.

​

The gentle breeze brought the smell of fresh coffee, cigars, and pipes to my table. There was something about that particular mixture of sensations that made me not want to move. So I didn’t.

Finishing my fifth cappuccino, I set the fine porcelain cup on the small little saucer that came with it. Around me, people were enjoying coffee and pastries, one table enjoying a perfectly baked loaf of French bread. As they cut thin slices, steam rose and brought back rather unpleasant memories. I ordered a bottle of beer to forget. It didn’t help. 

I finished the beer, laid money on the table, and headed down the cobblestone street. A combination of cappuccino and beer was starting to affect me, but I tried to brush it off. 
 
I had rented a room on the third floor of a flophouse near the cafe and l barely made it to the room before my stomach revolted. I knew better than to drink beer with coffee because it always played hell with my gut. It played hell again. I spent the next several hours in the bathroom and on the bed. The room either spun or floated, depending on what my stomach was doing.

When lights from the plaza found their way into the room, I realized it was getting dark—time to go to work.

At least I felt alive. Not great, but I could move without feeling like I was going to crash into the floor, which was good because I had work to do tonight.

I took a shower, put on a decent suit, and ventured down the stairs to the shabby lobby. I must have still looked queasy because the girl at the desk gave me a worried stare. I looked her up and down slightly longer than I should have, but there was a lot to see, all of it good. Nodding and smiling, I headed out into the night.

If not accustomed to Paris’s lights, the glow was dizzying, and I admit the lights were overwhelming. It had been years since I’d been to Paris, but I still knew my way around. Some things never changed. The old baker across the square ran books out of the backroom between baking loaves of bread when I knew him. He had been old then, and now years after the war, I doubted he was still there. If he was, and I was right and had spotted my target by chance once again near the bakery, I might get lucky.

Knocking on the door, I was surprised to see him open it. The years had him crippled and bent him over, but he still moved—only slower and more deliberate. His face lit up when he saw me and swung open the heavy glass-paneled door.

“Monsieur, it’s good to see you again.”

“You almost didn’t.” I shook his hand and closed the door behind me. Our conversation floated between French and English, with French popping in every time he became excited.

He told me that he’d stopped running numbers years ago and was semi-retired, only baking for shop patrons, no longer wholesale. He started to make coffee, but his hands were shaking. I took the hand grinder from him and ground some beans for our coffee. While the water seeped over the coffee in the French press, I got down to business.

“Leon, I need to find a man—not just any man. This man is extremely dangerous. He kills people just for fun as well as profit, and I need to stop him.” 

Leon’s face soured. “No, no—not that—that I can’t do again.”

“I’m not asking you to become involved. I only need to find him. I’ll stop him.”

The coffee was ready, and he fiddled with the press, then poured two cups of coffee. We drank in silence.

During the war, I’d let him get away with a lot of black-market stuff, and he supplied me with information about troop movements and officers. Many of them disappeared after they met me. Years after the war, I was still a soldier, but a different kind of soldier.

I worked for Interpol, and I was after an elusive hitman who had killed all over the world. Once for a minute, I saw his reflection in a window just before he killed a minister of defense in England, but he escaped. I was the only one who had even gotten a glimpse of him. I had managed to trail him from hit to hit, unfortunately never catching him, and now he was in Paris. 

This would be his last stop—or mine.

As we drank our coffee, I very selectively told him what I was doing and then asked about his family. His wife had died a few years ago, and his children lived all over Europe. One was in America, and he was proud that he had an American grandchild. As he showed me the pictures, his grin returned to its youthful glory. He was indeed a proud grandpa. I didn’t blame him. Perhaps, I felt a bit of remorse and jealousy at his joy. 

Reluctantly, I brought him back to my problem.

“Leon, have you seen this man. I think he might be hiding in this area.” I handed him a sketch based on the man I saw. 

He studied it, putting his glasses back on and off a couple of times. His brow knotted. 

“Yes, I remember those round glasses and that straggly hair. He bought bread from me last week. I had closed the shop, but he knocked on the door and wanted to buy some fresh bread. I told him I didn’t have any, but he spotted the last loaf that I kept for myself. I couldn’t refuse, so I sold it to him.” He paused. “I kept thinking there was something familiar about him.”

I told him it was okay. He’d done the right thing.

“You don’t think he’ll come back?” 

“I doubt it. But he might, your bread is worth coming back for more. I’d come back.” 

Leon responded absently, “Yes, it was a nice loaf of bread.”

He got up and started to head for the kitchen. “I’ll make you a loaf to take with you.”

“No, Leon, not now. It’s late. You need to go to bed. I’ve kept you up too long as it is now, no baking in the middle of the night. Those days are past. You go to bed. I’ll be around in the morning, but you won’t see me.” He looked confused. 

“Leon, I’m going to watch for him.” I pointed to the picture on the table. 

He nodded. “Like the old days?”

“Yes, like the old days.” 

I kissed him on both cheeks as was the French custom and shooed him up to his flat above the bakery. Carefully checking the entire downstairs, I locked the doors and windows and slipped out the back door. I didn’t go far.

The smell of bread hung in the air around the bakery. The aroma ingrained into bricks and mortar as decades of baking and cooking had soaked into the building’s fabric.
 
I walked around the block a couple of times to get the feel of the place again, as it had been years since I did a stakeout in Paris. The cafe was across the square, now closed, chairs neatly stacked on the tables. I picked out a table that was an ideal spot to watch for my target, then returned to the hotel.
 
The girl who took my keys was gone, replaced by her mother. She handed me my keys with a glare that said, leave my daughter alone. I ignored it. 

Once in my room, I stripped, took a bath, and sank onto the bed for a much-needed nap. Waking at four in the morning, I dressed and headed down to greet the early morning sun.

Paris was already waking up at this hour, as shopkeepers and workers headed for their daily chores. I scouted the neighborhood as I returned to Leon’s place, spying a rental place where I could get a scooter in a hurry if I needed it.

I waited half a block away, out of sight, until the cafe across from Leon’s opened up. Once they were, I took the seat I had chosen, tucked in a corner behind a pole but with a clear view of Leon’s bakery.

I ordered a latte and a croissant and settled down. I nibbled on the croissant. I was hungry, but I thought I might as well take my time. I might be there for a while.

Sipping on the latte and munching the pastry, I watched as Leon turned on the lights and unlocked the door, opening his shop. Soon the smell of fresh baking bread wafted across the street, intermixed with the smell of coffee. It was intoxicating. 

Customers entered Leon’s shop and came out laden with paper bags of fresh bread. I smiled. For someone who had cut back on the baking, Leon was baking a lot of it. The morning customers thinned as the morning wore on. Leon sat behind his counter, reading the newspaper.

My hope was my target would crave more of Leon’s bread soon. If he were still in town, and I thought he was, he’d be back. So I would wait.

Leon closed the shop in late afternoon. I was considering it was time to leave. I had lost count of how many lattes and cappuccinos I’d had along with pastries, none of which tasted as good as Leon’s bread. I knew I’d worn out my welcome at the cafe a long time ago. The lone server still there was giving me the evil eye. I threw a wad of money on the table, more than enough to pay my tab, and decided to call it quits. 

He appeared out of nowhere and was standing in front of Leon’s shop door. I saw his reflection in the glass. I had only a glimpse of him before, but there was no doubt it was him. I’d been chasing him all over the world—now I had him.

Leon opened the door. A few minutes later, the man left carrying a big bag of bread. 
 
***
As most citizens of Paris walked within their neighborhoods, it was easy to follow my quarry’s path. I walked along the square, and the sights and sounds brought back pleasant memories. The street players’ music reminded me of days spent effortlessly moving about the pubs and cafes of the day. Certain smells from a perfumery we passed reminded me of a young woman from my youth. 

The trail ended at a three-story walk-up—a sign on the building advertised rooms rented by the day or week. The place looked familiar, but all rooming houses looked the same to me. I climbed the stairs, somehow I knew where to go.

I stood in front of the room door, nervous as I opened it. I had him.

There he was, staring at me. He pulled a gun from behind his back. 

I shrugged. “Put the gun down. If you were going to kill me, I’d be dead.” 

He lowered the gun to his side but did not place it in its holster. 

I took a deep breath. “When did you spot me?” 

“At Leon’s.” He indicated the paper bag of bread on the table nearby.

“You could never resist his baking.”

“No one can.” 

I nodded in agreement. “You know I’m here to arrest you?” My tone as a matter of fact, as someone discussing the weather.

“But suppose I don’t want to be arrested?” He raised his eyebrows at the thought.

“Then I’m to neutralize you as I see fit.”

“I see. Do you have a name on your warrant?”

“Don’t need one. It specifically says I’m to bring back the person or persons I saw kill the defense minister on January 23rd two years ago. I’ve identified you as the person I saw. You match the description I gave at the time. You’re him.”

“I see. But am I? No one else has seen me.”

He took off his glasses and reached up, pulling off the scraggy blond wig he was wearing, revealing his face to me. We looked alike, remarkably alike—almost twins.

He smiled. “Now you know the truth. You’ve been lying to yourself all this time, but you knew.”

I choked back a no, and he brought his weapon up, pointing at me. “It’s over.”
The sound of a gunshot and shattering mirror rang in my ears. Then another gunshot and blood oozed from my chest. I looked down to see a loaf of bread in one hand and a gun in another. 

The gun slipped from my hand as I sank to the floor as everything became clear. I had been chasing myself. Too many years of being undercover and I lost who I was. As blackness descended and I took my last breath, I realized the truth. 

I killed all of those people. 

My quarry was me. 

​

Forty years of chasing demons and saints had finally caught up with him.
He was tired. But it was a good tired. He had spent most of his life as a reporter and later a freelance investigative reporter—always in search of the truth.
Most of the time, the truth lay somewhere in the gray area between right and wrong, but he’d never stopped looking. Now his time was almost up. He was about to succumb to the ravages of time. While the decades of travel had taken him all over the world. It hadn’t been kind to his body. Cancer had started eating him alive several years ago. So, he stopped traveling. He had been working only from home. Eventually, even that stopped. Now he barely did more than write and sleep. 
Mostly he slept. He wanted to drift back into the ever-inviting world of sleep. As he did, he saw the table near him where his old friends lay—the camera, magnifying glass, and reading glasses. 
Those items had been around the world with him. On a shelf across the room were the notebooks he’d filled in his decades of work—notes on good guys, bad guys, and everyone in between. A shelf on the other wall held his awards.
His reporting had brought him the notoriety he only dreamed of when he was a kid watching Redford and Hoffman play the reporters he eventually became. The center of the shelf held his most prized award, the Pulitzer Prize, which sat in a place of honor in the middle. He had earned that in his middle years as a reporter.
The tales told. The awards received. His work complete.
That was over now. He was old and sick. Too old and sick to go traipsing around the world looking for trouble. Trouble? Do you say? Oh, he found trouble, usually at the point of a gun, or in a jail cell.
But it had been worth it.
Over the years as an investigative reporter, he had broken many stories, but the days of asking the tough questions to people who didn’t want to answer them were over.
Closing his eyes, he slipped off to sleep. As the darkness of sleep engulfed him, he remembered his inspiration. It was a movie of all things.
As a child, he had watched many movies with his father, an avid movie fan. 
But one movie stuck with him over the years. It was the inspiration for his career as a reporter and a journalist. “All the President's Men.” 
Years later, he had the privilege to interview the stars of that movie. He had met Woodward and Bernstein at a news function a few years before, and they had become good friends. That connection allowed him access to Robert Redford and Dustin Hoffman, and their interviews had become legend.
In the last few years, cancer had made it increasingly difficult for him to work the way he wanted, but he had one final story to tell.
The only story he hadn’t told—his. 
No one knew the truth behind the stories he had written, the effort, the danger he faced as he did his investigative work and told other people’s stories. Stories he received accolades for, but he never revealed the truth or found the time to tell his story.
Now he had the time, but he didn’t. He was nearing the end of his beat, and he desperately wanted to get one last story written. He forced himself to stay awake, pushing off the bliss of a long dark sleep, for it was only then that his body was at peace from the pain and memories.
He refused to give in, and he sat at the table one more time and dragged the old typewriter to him. Sliding another sheet of paper in the roller, he wound it down and started typing his last story.

​