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The Molotov Box

Published by Daniel Johnson at Smashwords

Copyright 2011 Daniel Johnson


Overcast skies hid the setting sun, bringing early darkness and almost bearable temperatures to the dusty freight yard. In the distance the sound of heavy machinery could still be heard as the second shift prepared a stack train for its departure to California but the area around the little man in the tan suit appeared to be deserted.

Belatedly the man wished that he had left his jacket in the back seat of the cab waiting by the guard shack at the yard entrance, but now it remained on simply because it was one less item to worry with. A hot breeze was toying with his carefully constructed hairdo and he had to try to drape the thinning, overlong locks back across the top of his head using only the edge of a sleeve because his hands were full.

He was carrying a briefcase and consulting a page of instructions as he wandered the barren alleys between the rows of steel containers waiting their turn at new destinations. He had walked a long way from the entrance and his breathing was labored as he counted to himself.

“…Trojka, Chetverka,” he mumbled in Russian as was his habit, and then paused.

There should have been five lines of the boxes stacked from one to three units high before he came to the one he was looking for. But there was a red Maersk forty-footer facing him broadside and there appeared to be two columns lengthwise behind it. Did that count as one row or two?

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