CRIME FICTION FRIDAY: THE PROMISED LAND (PART 4)

That’s  right–on Fridays I’ll feature crime FICTION written by Yours Truly or  by other guests, but inspired by true events. In this case… pleased to  introduce Kaspars the Latvian official/detective–a somewhat jaded ex-cop  just two days on the job who stumbles, literally, into a human  trafficking case against the background never ending spy games on the  border with Russia.

As if it were that simple.

[Note:  This was first published under the title “Corruption Verite” in the  Fractus Europa European crime anthology published by Dunn Books,  although this version has the author’s (as in Yours Truly’s) preferred  ending. For more stories, check out the full anthology, available on  Amazon through Kindle.]

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The Promised Land (Part 4)

Other title: Corruption Verite

***

It was a strange night—the flight back to his apartment, her impatience, not understanding as he rummaged through a drawers of all technical and sundry. The awkward moment of Kaspars pushing Krista aside when he pulled the pre-war Nagan revolver, and the suddenly girl getting it, vanishing to the loo so that he had just enough time make adjustments and load. Then the girl by his side, her head on his shoulder as they drove the suicide road east, Kaspars head foggy so that he checked and re-checked the glove compartment to make sure he still had the gun—and not once, but twice slowing to a stop on the side of the two-lane, terrified of lights behind him, pulling the Nagan and opening the door to step out into the night as mere innocents passed.

But the rest of the time she spoke to him, held tight to his ribs and chest as if cloven to him to the end.

“There is a cabin near Verkne. We used to hike there—three days with my brother when I was a little girl. In the morning the waters were golden. And my brother fished for pike as long as your arm.

“I know it is still there. It will be there just as it has always been, for a hundred years. The place where I long to return.”

Such were her rambling, the kisses on his cheek tiny and endearing. Yet Kaspars did not reply, did not say a word. Not once during the night and not until he saw the road marker that meant the tri-border was near.

“We’re here.”

“I don’t want to go.”

Kaspars again drew the pistol from the glove compartment. “That makes two of us.”

This time, even in blue-black before sunrise, Kaspars knew the way. Twenty meters in, a sharp left where he’s missed the path the first time and two-hundred meters east. The path was wide here, the center tracked with boot prints so that he wondered how he had ever in that previous life become so irretrievably lost. Yet no longer, for this was how they walked to the clearing, an ex-cop and his half-Lithuanian girl, seeing the headlights ahead of them, shining out of the clearing straight at them, and then stepping out of the forest to find the customs guards loading a military truck in the snow.

Then Captain Berzins’ voice, before they could see him. “You should put that pistol away. Good way to get shot.”

“I rather think I won’t.”

The captain stepped out of the glare of headlights a AK-47 at the ready. He was flanked by the grey-faced Olzos and a third border guard Kaspars had never met.

“We knew you’d come,” he said. He grinned at Krista. “Pretty girl.”

Kaspars ignored that. “You called, I came.” He waved the pistol to the border guards loading boxes upon boxes from one military truck to another. “No Vietnamese this time?”

“Not this time.”

“There was a fourth,” said Kaspars. “I found him up on the hill the day we met. He ran, didn’t he? Made it too close to the border so you left him there.”

Olzos gave a quick glance at the captain, whose grin had faded to a sneer.

Kaspars said, “You should have given me credit for killing him as well.”

[The remainder of the story is featured on Patreon for paying subscribers. Hit the link here for this and further bonus material: https://www.patreon.com/TheCornerswithPrestonSmith