Sticks for a Bridge

Posted: August 11, 2012 in Uncategorized

All the camping trips of Ryan’s childhood and adolescence were a thing of entertainment, something to do with his father or a way for the guys to sneak out with a narrowly obtained six-pack of beer and play at being men for a day or two. They were memories he held fondly, in sepia tones and framed in polished oak and cedar.

Now that he had been hiding in the woods for five days, all he wanted was a cheeseburger and the evening news. Gregor Zanla wanted him dead, though, and his network ran like fingers checking the pulse of every vein not just of Minneapolis, but every city within a 500-mile radius. Even the Canadian ones. So Ryan packed what little he could and decided that New Brunswick was his safest option. His ex-fiancee lived there, and if the winds started to change, he could stow on some boat and disappear into Europe.

The woods had been a good idea. The cosmopolitan Zanla didn’t give them much thought. He would assume Ryan was laying low, but he fancied himself a philosopher of men and knew that the pink flesh was no longer beastly. Eventually, Ryan would crack. Eventually, he would try to make contact with someone or spend the night in a bed. And eventually, he’d get his hands on the man that killed his wife and daughter.


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