Greetings to all my lovely readers! I am back at long last from a rather unexpected hiatus, with (finally) some snippets from my NaNoWriMo project.
I’m afraid it doesn’t really have a title yet, but it’s a modern spy thriller that takes place in several countries. Enjoy!
Five minutes later, his nose began to run. He wiped it on the back of his hand to check. It was blood.
He bit out an angry, wordless exclamation. He wasn’t going to make it.
Peter Sakharov had always hailed him as the quietest, quickest, and most naturally gifted of his spy ring.
Here’s hoping he was right.
He was Russian, he told himself, but that didn’t help any. Starving Russians with no coat get cold too.
Victoria dropped the note like it was on fire. Her heart was pounding its way into her throat and the world closed in with a prickling, hot sensation. The window began to bang again in the wind.
She was alone. She had to get away from there.
“Are we sinking now, Philip?”
“Cows always get sick at the worst times,” said Michael, stomping with his muck boots into the veterinary hospital.
It was a move he would have to live with, even if it meant he didn’t live long. That was the game sometimes.
He thanked the waitress with an extra coin, one he could barely spare, and went across the street to buy new clothes.
And only just in time.
He saw one fellow walking around, looking at all the bus stops, especially the one he had been at.
A chill whispered up his spine.
Philip stood, livid. “She’s a girl—just a girl. You leave that alone. She has nothing to do with political matters.”
The man laughed. “From the looks of it, she knows nothing about them, either.”
“No, Tim. Timothy!”
He stopped and looked back at her. In the stark half-light, she could see there were tears in his eyes.
“There, Victoria,” he whispered, giving her damp hair a kiss. A tear, burning in contrast to the cold salt water that trickled continually down his face, slipped down his cheek and into her hair. “You’ll be alright, sister; you’ll be alright soon.”
Hands clapped on her shoulders and a kiss was planted on the back of her head.
“Who is this beautiful woman, out painting masterpieces?”
“Tim!” she squealed, jumping and turning around. “What’s this? You’re not changed, and—” she broke into laughter, trying to still her pounding heart. “I’m not beautiful, I’m covered in paint!”
“Some of the world isn’t that interesting,” he said, looking over at her with amusement.
“That’s just to you, Philip,” she answered back, pausing to sip her coffee. “To me, it’s—like a limitless adventure.”
“You are too nice. I knew a guy that got mugged in Croatia because he looked rich and American.”
“That’s Croatia. Canada is perfectly civilized.”