Fiction: Sleeping Dogs

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Sitting in his dark car parked below the new Barber Bridge in MacWilliam Park this balmy May evening, he was seriously contemplating running again, as he’d been doing most of his life. But so far, he’d resisted the nearly overwhelming urge. He didn’t want to leave. In the five years since he’d moved to Vero Beach and got married, he’d integrated well with the small seaside Florida community. But then, that was the specialty that the Central Intelligence Agency had trained him for, and he’d been the best.

The windows down, he smoked a cigarette as he listened to the hum of traffic above on the bridge. A few fishermen were trying their luck from the walkway under the bridge that extended out to the ICW main channel. But then the band in the Riverside Café started up again, drowning out all sounds other than the drums and bass guitar.

Read the entire article in the January 1998 issue

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