Hunting Grounds

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By John Davis Frain

I was six when he ordered my “racially undesirable” family killed. Mother. Father. Emil. Sonia.

He put me to work. Said I was quick. The gall to compliment.

I’m a law-abiding citizen. Seven decades I’ve hunted. Vowed justice as he scurried around the globe. Tonight, we share the same hotel in Bucharest. It’s difficult remembering his face. He carries a new name. But that voice.

Herr Kaiser.

My plan is fuzzy. Add coolant to his drink? Inject him with ricin? My time on Earth is too short.

Acquiring the Glock was easy. I’d imagined pulling the trigger would’ve been harder.

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