The little-known Library of Congress’s Overseas Offices are tasked with getting information from some of the world’s least hospitable places...
I limp wearily through the door, stopping to let is shut with a merry little jingle as I lean against the jamb. There were three of us when we started. Optimists. You have to be an optimist in this job.
Jackson and I lost McHenry to a pack of wild newspaper boys in the night. One moment, he was there running beside us; the next, gone, with only the raucous cries of "EXTRA! EXTRA!" fading away behind us as a mix of fear and adrenaline pushed us onwards.
Jackson... I shudder and try not to think about Jackson. Disemvoweled is a horrible way to die. I know that if I don't keep moving, his pitiful cries will come back to haunt me... "HLP! HLP! GD HLP M! HLP!"
Heaving a ragged breath, I straighten and stumble towards the counter, my wounded leg almost giving out. Almost, but not quite. The clerk looks up from his cell phone, a bored and slightly annoyed expression on his face. "Copy of the Sun Journal Good Day Times." I manage to croak, reaching for my wallet.
He shrugs. "Sorry, man. Just sold the last one." He gestures vaguely in the direction of a small, in-store café, where a short, balding toad of a man sits, folded paper in his lap and a smirk on his lips.
"Lubyachev," I snarl under my breath, pulling out my snub-nosed .45 hand-held photocopier instead of my wallet. There was no way I was leaving without that paper this time; and after the 2014 International Trade Conference Minutes incident in New Dehli, there was no way I was letting Lubyachev leave, period.
