Round 4 Challenge: Weave an element of Fyor’s story into your passage. It should be no more than 450 words.
Frank looked out the window of his first class seat at the receding Washington monument. They usually flew him out on private jets but intelligence was tightening its belt unlike the administration.
“Sir, what can I get you to drink?” the stewardess asked Frank.
“Take a guess.”
“Martini. Shaken not stirred,” she said coyly.
“Stirred not shaken. Shaking bruises the gin. They don’t tell you that in the movies.”
As she served him the drink she leaned so low he could smell the Gucci Envy on her neck. Her body was crying out to become the latest notch on Frank Braun’s Mile High belt. But he wasn’t risking national security for some easy bathroom thrill. Ralph Fiennes could afford such shenanigans but not Frank Braun.
“Go on,” he said smacking her ass lightly with his copy of National Review. “Get out of here.”
He swirled the gin and contemplated the recent dog murders. First the Doberman on his doorstep. Then the Portuguese Water Dog, the same breed as the First Dog, drowned on a makeshift waterboard with “Eros” shaven across its hind. He slammed back half the martini in one swig. Both killings had clearly been orchestrated by the same mastermind but why the change of names? He knew the answer was in Cyprus.
When news broke about the cananacide in Limassol, Cyprus, Frank had headquarters book him on the next flight to Larnaca. The entire bureau was convinced the crime was unconnected. But they knew they’d be fools not to let Frank investigate his hunches. Second-rate spies just saw dots. He saw the lines that connected them.
Cyprian police were holding the killer and a Ukrainian hooker, probably that minute violating her every orifice under a purported body search. He’d witnessed it too often in third-world backwaters. Hopefully they hadn’t gang banged her, or at least would wait until he finished his interview.
From what he’d gathered from the semi-literate officer, the man hired the hooker for S&M. At one point she went to the balcony for more rope, where she saw the dead terrier hanging from the clothesline with the rest of the laundry. The neighbors heard the screaming and called the police. They found her sobbing on the street half-naked. He was facedown in the bathroom floor, tied-up and duct-taped, flopping like a fish on land. There were welts all over his back where she’d walked on him in her stilettos. Frank chuckled to imagine it.
He knocked back the martini and snapped his fingers in the air. As the hostess turned, he pointed at his upraised empty glass. She winked and bent for the gin. Maybe a trip to the bathroom was in order, after all.