Jake Banks

A short passage about an international spy who wakes up after a near-death accident and works on his next moves.

I wake up on the side of a road winding through a forest. Snow falls from the clouds covering the grass and treetops. The remains of the silver Mercedes I had rented lies scattered on the road, part of it still on fire.

I know that whoever did this will return to finish the job. I have to move fast. I pull myself towards a tree leaving drops of blood across the snow-covered ground. With the help of the tree trunk, I pull myself to my feet and limp deeper into the forest.

I stagger through the woods. Soot, snow, sweat and blood cover my clothes. I glance down at my ruined suit. I notice a bloodstain confirming my injury. Only one of my belongings made it through the explosion: a pistol. Apart from that, I only have my skills and knowledge.

After half an hour of wandering lost, I find a cabin in the woods. I notice a light in the window. Despite all the horror movies about these things I decide to take shelter in this house.

I try opening the back door. It wasn't locked. I lean on the red door and swing it open. It leads straight to a kitchen. Along the walls, to the left of the door, I see a black stove, a silver dishwasher, brown cupboards and cabinets. In the middle of the room on the wooden floor stands an island. Behind the island, four chairs surround a brown dining table with a red and white tablecloth.

The elderly couple enjoying their meal rise in alarm. I point my gun at them. “Be quiet and show me where your phone is,” I grumble.