By Bud Koenemund
He slouched on a park bench as heavy flakes
of snow fell. Forcing his eyes open, he tried to watch them descend through the
muted, yellow illumination of gaslights lining the walkway before him. The agony
in his chest, however, made it difficult to focus on anything beyond taking the
next breath.
Blood trickled over his stomach in thin
rivulets, soaking his shirt and pants. It dripped to the concrete below and
quickly froze. Hearing movement behind him, he tried to turn, but a lightning
bolt of pain ripped through his upper body.
“Is that you, Yuri?” he asked the darkness.
“Da,” a voice answered.
“I figured it out,” he said. “Just too late.”
“Always trust your gut,” Yuri said. “This is what
you Americans say, is it not?”
“I’ll remember that next time,” he said, with
a laugh that devolved into a choking cough.
“For you, my friend, I fear there will be no
next time,” Yuri replied, taking a seat on the bench opposite his.
He nodded, but remained silent for nearly a
minute.
“How did you find me?” he asked, finally.
“This is your favorite place,” Yuri answered.
His head lifted drunkenly.
“How do you know that?” he asked.
“Matthew,” Yuri clucked, “give me some credit,
please.”
He drooped at the sound of his real name.
“We’ve learned much about you over the
years,” Yuri assured him.
Yuri stood and slowly approached him.
“Perhaps it is fitting our little game ends
here,” Yuri said, removing a pistol from his coat.
Matt thought of the girl he’d kissed, right
here on this bench – the first real kiss for both of them. Her face
materialized in his mind: her curly red hair; striking blue eyes. He’d loved
her, and told her so. She’d requited the sentiment. It was love before either
truly knew what love is.
“Goodbye…” Yuri began.
Matt didn’t hear the shot. But, the thud of a
large caliber bullet striking a human body, and the sickening sound of the air
being forced out of Yuri’s lungs, was unmistakable. For a moment, a confused
look twisted Yuri’s face. He staggered backward, his arms went limp, and he
crumpled to the ground.
“Goodbye, Yuri,” Matt wheezed.
“You are a fool,” a female voice said.
“I’ve never been accused of being very
smart,” he said.
“Letting him shoot you, though?” she mused.
“Well, it seemed like a good idea at the
time,” he joked.
The woman stepped out of the shadows.
“Hello, Lyla,” Matt groaned.
“You Americans…” she said, “always so
foolishly heroic.”
“That’s us,” he agreed.
“Hmmm… at least you helped us uncover the
traitor,” she admitted.
“You’re welcome,” he said.
“You should get to the hospital before you
bleed out,” Lyla advised.
Three men joined them in the light. Without a
word, they retrieved Yuri’s gun; then lifted his body and carried it away. Lyla
followed them into the gloom.
“Oh, no; don’t worry,” Matt called out; struggling
to stand. “I can make it on my own.”
