Writer for Hire
Sometimes the pen is the sword
I was sipping an espresso and intermittently tapping out my novel, when a large man sat next to me at the long, wooden communal table and said, “The Rays are coming to kill you, Lucas.”
He didn’t have a laptop, which was virtually a required accessory for entering Nimbus Coffee. He did, however, sport a bulge under his ill-fitting blue jacket, which showed the unambiguous contours of a gun. The smell of Old Spice that wafted off him battled the cafe’s sweet and nutty coffee aromas.
“What? When?”
“Today.” He took my espresso and drank it. The cup vanished in his expansive hand. “You need to leave town.”
“What are you talking about?”
He placed his hand firmly over mine, trapping it in what felt like the gravity well of a neutron star.
The thought, “uh oh,” quickly morphed from a smoldering ember of concern into a roaring fire of fear. I knew why. It wasn’t a complicated equation to solve. “Who are you?” I whispered.
“I work for Mike.” The man’s lips remained in a straight line as if they’d never once curled into a smile. The multiple scars on his face resembled hieroglyphics, and his left earlobe was missing.
