A Cold War Forest Night by BY Rogers
c. 2013 all rights reserved
Demyan waited in the back seat of his chauffeured 1959 ZiL-III, strumming his fingers on the arm rest. It was cold, the wind was howling outside the armored vehicle and he was tired. But his time in the field was measured, or so he believed. Soon, he hoped he would spend his days at the Politburo and his nights wherever he chose.
He couldn’t see the hamlet hidden in the trees. But the agent knew the safe house was secure, having spent many a night like a great many agents before him, seducing an endless stream of Bond girl wannabes. He smiled at the memory of the stuffed swordfish mounted on the wall above the bed. It has always been a source of inspiration.
But those days were long past for him. This assignment was different. This mission involved an unarmed American with a proclivity for large breasted women; hence the use of the sanctuary that was scheduled to be consumed in an accidental forest fire in the spring.
It was time. If the gypsy woman had done her job by now, the American would be turned. He would have no other choice. He stepped out of the car, closing the door quietly. His driver knew his job. The car eased itself silently down the dirt road to wait. Demyan turned his collar up and followed the short path into the forest.
A hundred yards away, he opened the door and peeked in. The lamp on the night stand was on, but what he saw was alarming. A jug of moonshine lay broken on the floor, its contents, tainted with hallucinogens intended for the American, was still draining between the floor boards. His agent, a gypsy from Belarus, was naked on the bed with the upper jaw of the swordfish completely buried between her ample breasts. The swordfish’s fin nearly touched the ceiling. He went to the girl but there was nothing he could do for her. Sensing danger, he backed out of the room and walked down the path, triggering the transistor radio in his pocket.
Half a mile away, his driver was on the ground, the last of his blood soaking the grass beneath his face. A light blinked on the dashboard inside the car. A gloved hand put the transmission into drive.
Demyan watched his ZiL approach. He lit a cigarette, as much for warmth as to signal the driver it was safe. When he noticed the car window was down, his head screamed for him to run to safety. He pulled his weapon, emptying the magazine toward the car as he ran as he ran up the trail.
Out of breath, he plunged into the cabin, slamming the door behind him. He spun around, knowing he had to turn the lamp off before his assailant arrived. Then he saw the American laying on the bed, the swordfish pinning him to the mattress. The gypsy was gone.
B Y Rogers is the author of The Sin of Certainty and a growing list of short stories, as well as the creator of The Iron Writer Challenge. At the moment, he lives in Utah with his wife of thirty-eight years, their five children and ten grandchildren. His stories are listed with Amazon and Smashwords.
Amazon – http://tinyurl.com/bq35jgj
Smashwords – http://tinyurl.com/bvxswys
The Iron Writer – http://theironwriter.com/
On behalf of Gerald Elias, Jeff Cohen, Sam Thomas, A.B. Bourn, Sheila Webster Boneham, BY Rogers and myself, thank you for reading and following the Dead Cold flash fiction extravaganza the past few weeks. It has been beyond fun. Please join me again next week as regular old Cold resumes.