Inspiration Monday: Deadly paper
(200 – 500 words)
Kevin rarely thought of his real name these days. David Rowan was a distant memory. He’d been in witpro going on nine years now. Those days were a time he’d rather forget anyway. He’d become a better man since they put him in the program. He’d straightened his life out.
Sure, he was a rat, but it was worth it. He’d put away some real scumbags. Of course, he was one of those scumbags once. He’d been running guns and heroine with the Black Bones. His wife’s rape was the last straw. He’d always managed to keep his home life separate from his Bones life, as he called it. He was able to give Karen nice things and a nice life, and they were happy. She never knew about his Bones life; well, maybe she did, but she never asked questions. She was smart that way.
He’d walked into his house early that day. He shot first, but they cornered him in the bathroom and shot him in the chest, the knee, and the shoulder. He was lucky, if that’s what you call it. He survived. They missed his heart and lung by millimeters. He was in the hospital for about five weeks recovering from his wounds. Two weeks in he discovered that his wife had died of her wounds, although he suspected a spiked IV — she was just down the hall and he never got to say good-bye.
Dammit. The rape was bad enough. Payback. They thought he’d been skimming the heroine profits. He wasn’t. He was pissed.
Four days after he returned home from the hospital, the agents came. They offered him a new life in a new city and a whole new identify. He was in horrific pain — physically and emotionally. He finally broke and told them what they needed. If he had to rat, he might as well make it good. He gave them names of those who ran the guns, he gave names of mules, names of drug sources, meeting places, the whole nine yards.
The system put thirteen people away for a very long time. The agency was ecstatic; he got immunity. He was alive and living in a new place, but he lost his family and friends and the seventeen years he’d had with Karen.
Nine years. Some days were hard, some days were good.
He’d met a great gal who moved in with him two years ago. They were happy, things were good, but she wasn’t Karen. Three weeks ago she was killed, a hit and run as she crossed the street on her way to work. Kevin knew it wasn’t random. He got scared.
Then he got terrified — the story made the local news and his picture was in the paper and on the Internet.
He contacted the agency that gave him this life, but they didn’t seem very helpful anymore. He had no choice; he had to run.
This rat would not be trapped again.