Amy looked over her shoulder.
She knew she’d done a good job. But the client wanted conformation. A picture. So she returned to the scene. Sent one. Now all she needed to do was to get away. Avoid the police.
Her phone buzzed.
You killed the wrong one. Try again.
(c) Chris Johnson 2019
The wreckage lay in the sun. Twisted, charred and burned. Ticking and groaning as it cooled.
In Nevada the choppers scrambled. Men in black racing the locals to the scene.
Perimeter set, the clean up begins.
All of the evidence, both of the small grey bodies, removed.
To Area 51.
(c) Chris Johnson 2018
Police cars pull up, silently, out of sight. Armed police make their way up the hill to the shack. Just as they start to approach it explodes. A murder of crows takes off with a burst of noise.
Hidden, an old man sniggers, then walks to his new secret still.
(c) Chris Johnson 2018
“Paul! It is you?”
I turn and walk, speed up. He taps my shoulder.
“Paul, I know it’s you. Where have you been?”
Prison, but that’s not the point.
“Come on Paul, let’s get a drink?”
I turn again.
“Come on mate?” Less certain.
I walk away, dialling.
“Witness Protection. How can we help?”
“I’m blown!” I reply.
(c) Chris Johnson 2018
I had friends. They trusted me. But one by one I had to let them go. They told me something I couldn’t tell the rest. Now I have no friends, just lots of secrets. The most important thing I’ve learned in life? That there’s no-one lonelier than a secret keeper.
(c) Chris Johnson 2018
Chris J Writes 