By Michael Mitchell
Brown left Nimsky motionless in the water. His steps raised dull echoes as he crossed the frozen river.
Traffic hummed on the bridge, unconcerned, advancing tentatively. Brown’s breath hung in the freezing air. A sudden doubt gripped him: “Was Nimsky dead?”
Nimsky smiled as he climbed the bank, glad he’d worn the wet suit. He jogged lazily into the distance. No problem to make the Moscow plane.
Perched in the steelwork of the bridge, the hitman eyed his prey. Brown strode on, his head bobbing gently in the telescope’s cross hairs.
“(I write) hopefully, to entertain someone.” – the writer