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| (c) Denis Tarantola - http://www.sxc.hu/profile/sined |
The
soup bubbled in the pan, lentil and bacon, the smell drifting through
the small thatched cottage. I looked up from my novel – an awful
hack job of a conspiracy thriller – at the window. A web of ice
crept its way along the pain, the condensation battling with the
frozen wastes outside.
The
cottage had been chosen from the website to be as many miles away
from any contact as possible. I hadn't had a visitor yet in the four
months I had boarded there, and that was just the way I liked it. The
perfect place to lie low.
I
rose and turned off the hob, dipping my finger into the hot liquid.
More salt required.
There
was a knock at the door. My hand dropped instinctively to the pistol
at my side.
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