On Monday mornings, I send out a story via email: ultra-brief tales of 1,000 words or more, usually in genres including horror, science fiction, and the supernatural. Those stories collectively are called Once Upon A Time. I’ve also published several ebooks and compendium volumes of those stories so far.

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Here's story 239, of 240 so far.

Mysterious Ways

Today, his name was Wouters, but only until the border.

Once he got past the checkpoint, he would be travelling under a different identity, making the change of documents in a parking spot, or a filling station, or whenever the first opportunity presented itself. He had the new papers ready, of course, taped to the underside of one of the rear floormats, and he hadn’t memorised the new name yet. For now, he was still Wouters.

The most pressing matter was his vehicle. Borders in this part of the world were mostly of the in-name-only variety, but up ahead that would change, with more sophisticated surveillance and record-keeping. It was risky to be traceable at more than one point of entry or exit, and a new identity became a liability if a license plate could link it to a previous persona. Finding new transport would be critical.

He glanced at the road map which was open on the passenger seat. The navigation functionality on a smart phone would be much better, but it was inherently tracked, so he’d become very proficient over the years at reading a paper map while driving. Charity shops always had lots of distressed but serviceable road atlases, donated when their owners had either retired from driving or just died, and the inaccuracies over time were a small price to pay for privacy.

In his business, after all, privacy was the difference between liberty and imprisonment — or worse.

His present employment was in the drugs trade, though his skills were of a more general nature. He never carried anything himself; that was a fool’s game, and a risk better borne by more expendable people. There were far more important matters to tend to, in particular when an obstacle was encountered, whether in the form of law enforcement, greed, unreliabilty, and so on. The man who presently was Wouter had a knack for solving problems of the human kind, in virtually all cases by arranging for the human being in question to disappear, never again to be seen.

The weapon had already been disposed of, even though its provenance was clean and he hadn’t left any prints. Forensics improved every year, and a wise man considered the future as much as the present. The job was done, and a mid-level dealer no longer had to worry about skimming too much off the top to support his family’s lavish lifestyle, because he no longer had a family, and he no longer drew breath.

The border checkpoint was up ahead, and it seemed that his luck was holding; they were waving cars through with barely a glance. He smiled, readying the impeccably-forged national ID card, which had more verisimilitude here than a passport would. The bored-looking guard nodded at the card as he slowed, motioning for him to continue, and within another few seconds he was clear. The easiest crossing so far, and he’d made three in the past two days.

Another glance at the map, then scrutiny of road signs over the course of a mile or so, and it seemed that his options for new transportation were limited. There was a major roadside restaurant chain location in another five miles, but that was out of the question for anything but a meal. Too many drivers frequented them, and there were cameras and regular deliveries. Too much attention. But there was another possibility.

The highway had an exit after another two miles, which joined an older road that had once been the primary haulage route between countries, and was now more of an access artery to various smaller settlements in the region. It wasn’t scenic or convenient, but it would be convenient for him today. He pulled off the highway when the exit came, and drove for a few minutes before finding what he expected to find: a lay-by, with a conspicuously overgrown verge, an empty wastebasket, and no litter or even cigarette stubs on the ground. It was perfect.

The man who was just barely still Wouter rolled into the lay-by, parking about three-quarters of the way up, then went around and opened the nearside back door to access the floor mat there. He took the envelope with the new identity, reviewed the documents and pocketed them, then went to the front of the car and opened the bonnet, propping it up with the attached strut. Then he tore open a small pack of peanuts and began eating them, content to wait.

Twenty-two minutes passed before another vehicle went by, not even slowing down, and then a further seven minutes before a dusty and at least fifteen-year-old modest sedan came around the curve at five miles per hour below the speed limit, saw him, and slowed before rolling into the lay-by and coming to a halt just a few metres behind. Wouter smiled and waved, putting on his best imitation of a frustrated and embarrassed expression.

The man who got out of the older car was kind-looking and middle aged, and a moment later Wouter saw that he wore the clerical tab-collar of a minister of religion. It was ideal all around. Christian charity, a man of peace and generosity, and a car old enough to lack satellite connectivity, or maybe even a CD player. Killing the vicar, or whatever he was, would be no problem at all, and then the man who would soon no longer be Wouter would have a new vehicle to match his new identity for the onward journey.

“Thank you for stopping,” Wouter said, widening his smile. “Of all the places for this damned thing to break down. Pardon my language.”

The minister returned the smile, dismissing the apology with a gesture, and walked over to peer at the car’s exposed engine compartment. “Any idea what the trouble is?” he asked, and Wouter shook his head, using the movement to quickly look up and down the road, ensuring that they were alone.

“Not a clue,” Wouter replied. “I don’t suppose you can invoke a higher power to get it running again, can you?”

The minister smiled again without looking up, still peering at the engine. “Well, He does work in mysterious ways, but I wonder if car trouble might not be highest on His list of priorities,” he replied. “You never do know, though.”

Wouter was ready to make his move, and he slowly reached into his jacket pocket for the knife that was there. He had no compunction whatsoever about killing a man of god, no matter who the man or the god happened to be. When he glanced down, though, he was surprised to see that the minister was also holding a knife now, and the other man finally looked up at him.

“The old breakdown hijack, eh,” the minister said, with an almost wistful look on his face. “The classics are always the best.”

In an instant, the minister’s arm whipped up, and the blade cut across Wouter’s throat, curving up under the shelf of his jaw. Even in his shock, he had enough awareness to realise that he had perhaps thirty seconds of life left. Wouter tried to raise his own knife, but his arms had lost all their strength, and a wet, soporific warmth was spreading across his chest.

He made a sound, and it might have been a question, but the minister made no attempt to either discern the words or to respond. Wouter fell to the ground, unable to control his own body at all now, and as his vision faded, the last thing he saw was the minister standing above him, with his hands clasped in prayer.

JINX

KESTREL face a new and terrifying enemy: an all-seeing mastermind who already knows exactly who they are, and many of their deepest secrets. Nothing stays hidden forever, and the line between privacy and liberty is razor-thin…

Book 3 in the KESTREL action-thriller series.

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