Lorena waited by the edge of the airstrip as the Cessna wheeled round. She kept an eye on the highway. No one slowed. She’d thrown whatever tail the locals might have put on her. It had taken twelve years for them to even suspect.

She and Mikel had noticed the phone taps and the mail interceptions last spring—recognised them immediately. Phone taps! Who did the Protectorate think they were, high-school hackers?

They’d ceased operations and settled into their other life. Suburban husband and wife. Mikel transferred to different department. Lorena found a buyer for the company that had been a perfect front, catering to the bureaucratic cocktail circuit.

In a moment she and Mikel would be whisked away together. She allowed herself a smile at the thought. The plane taxied to a stop nearby. Mikel stepped out, followed by a black-suited man. A voice behind Lorena called, ‘Drop your weapon. Onto the ground. Now’

Without turning, she dropped. Mikel stayed on his feet. He drew a pistol. In what she’d thought had been his native tongue he whispered ‘It’s been fun, Dear. Hasn’t it.’ Then he turned to his companion and muttered, ‘take her away.’

 

2011—Richard Holt / small stories about love (smallstoriesaboutlove.wordpress.com)

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