“Where to, jefe?”, the Captain asked indicating the map on the Senora’s bridge. Drecker sighed, his tell-tale puff of cigar smoke curling up and disappearing in the ocean breeze. He reached into the inside pocket of his duster and retrieved an envelope. “That’s a mighty fine question. Where ARE we goin next?” The Captain had seen him reference a new letter before every job and still didn’t know who was sending them. He didn’t mind. People were allowed their secrets on his ship. When you’re at sea for long periods of time, stuck in a tin can, and bunked with a bunch of salty guys who spend way too much time thinking and talking about women, secrets can be a precious retreat. Secrets are what held his crew together. He had also come to trust Drecker during all their misadventures, so if he wasn’t ready to share what was on his letter, the Captain could care less. “Bruges”, said Drecker with a tone of irritation. “Belgium is where we’re goin. Better get another ...
‘Waiting was always the worst’ A burst of steam crept over the man’s bushy mustache, from his mouth, and rose silently into the air. The air was always humid in the cramped little laboratory. A hissing noise came from the large, metallic, apparatus slung over the man’s back. He sat and stared anxiously, his short round figure leaning forward with anticipation from the top of a barstool. Sweat ran in small rivulets down his face, from his fuzzy grey head, past the goggles he always wore, down to his neck where it disappeared behind the tall collar of his white leather lab coat. He stared, unwavering, at the side of a small metal box as if attempting to intimidate it. Wilhelm Klank’s handler’s watched as he (yet again) finished a small and meaningless invention. The men seemed like gentlemen from their appearance; nice black suits with shiny wing-tip shoes. Their well-groomed demeanor hid well the fact that they were killers. They had locked him in his lab and had been watching h...