Turncoat

I grimaced as I followed the young man into the palatial mansion. The man couldn’t be older than seventeen, and his scrawny frame looked barely capable of handling the scratched and battered AK-47 in his hands.

Even inside the house, with banks of air conditioners likely running at full steam, the oppressive tropical heat still left me sweating in my suit. The fabric was light, but I reached up and loosened my tie by slipping a finger in between it and my collar. My feet felt uncomfortably damp in my leather shoes.

We came around the corner, and there he was, lounging in an armchair, holding a glass of some dark liquid in one hand and smiling up at me through flat eyes. “Ah, the turncoat arrives,” he greeted me, grinning fiercely. Continue reading

Advertisements