A View to Die For

A Martin Williams adventure

By Stephen A. RoddewigPublished about a year ago • Updated 27 days ago • 14 min read

Martin Williams glided across the four-foot snow drifts in his snowshoes. Behind, the Bentley 8 Litre smoked and gurgled. Tight curves and the incessant climbed had killed the automobile.

Rotten bit of luck. Fortunately, the warranty hasn’t expired yet.

A few hundred meters on lay his destination. Martin hefted the duffel bag on his shoulder, his only luggage for this sojourn.

He was pleased with the quiet snowshoes. The old man at the bottom of the mountain had wanted to charge two pounds to rent them. When Martin had expressed outrage that a war veteran—nay, a war hero—could be treated so callously, the miser had relented and shaved off a pound.

Martin smirked to himself. That cheap bastard never thought to check if those pounds were the real thing.

His last business trip had come with a unique perk: keep whatever you don’t spend from the stipend, all paid in advance. Taking full advantage, Martin had scrimped and saved wherever he could on during his business in the Scottish moors, going to bed many nights hungry to save a few pence.

Only later did he discover all the money he had bagged was counterfeit.

Still, what may have been a tragedy for most was a windfall for Martin. Instead of earning hundreds of pounds he might squirrel away forever, he had been given hundreds of fake pounds whose only value was if he spent them. Of course, there was always the risk that he’d be caught, but the fakes were good.

Besides, the police want me for plenty of other reasons. What’s a charge of fraud on top of murder, arson, theft, or jaywalking?

He paused for a moment amid a copse of pines, a splash of green amid the white ground, tan trunks, and pale gray sky. Cupping his gloved hands around his mouth, he used the lit cigarette between his teeth as a makeshift heater.

Have they added treason to that list by now? he wondered, then shook his head. No, they won’t give me that kind of acknowledgement. It’s a petty lot running things back in London.

Speaking of petty, he still held his most recent trip against the Firm. Not because of the attempted deception, but because they had never looped him in that counterfeiting was now part of the Firm’s repertoire.

Just think. They could have been paying me in fake pounds for months and I might never have noticed. Ever since the Americans sent their market into a tailspin so bad it wrecked the rest of the world economy, hard currency is harder to come by than ever.

Case in point: Martin had bought the Bentley in cash. The fat salesman couldn’t shake his hand fast enough without a second look at the pile of pounds Martin had left on his desk.

He rubbed his hands in glee as he resumed his trek through the woods. Pay in fakes, redeem the warranty for real money. Today was really looking up. Adjusting the shoulder strap, Martin patted the Thompson through the fabric for continued good fortune.

Ahead, the faintest outline of the cabin came into view. Further confirmation reached Martin’s nostrils a moment later. Wood burning. The only smell penetrating my frozen nostrils, really.

Another dozen meters, and his destination was clearly visible: a one-room log cabin with smoke spilling from the central chimney. Martin paused in a thicket and dropped the duffel bag. Rummaging around, he shifted the Thompson aside and removed a pair of field glasses.

Picking his way through the trees, Martin moved with years of practiced silence, surveying the site. The cabin was one large room with a loft at the crest of a hill. Its surroundings were largely flat and, less apt for Martin’s purposes, clear of trees and undergrowth. Fortunately Martin hadn’t planned on stealth. That’s where the Thompson and its drum barrel came into play.

Most importantly, through the twin circles he found his targets inside: communist agitators.

The Firm didn’t have much concern for who held the reigns of power. In fact, his employers had heard tantalizing tales of the corruption and graft to be had in a centrally managed economy. However, it had no sympathy for those who thought they could bring down the established order without first seeking proper signoff.

That affront to the organizations that made up the English underworld was enough, but Martin’s job description had made special note that the agitators tended to target the working class. Given their desperate circumstances, these men and women were the most receptive to the communists’ message. However, the “champions of the proletariat” showed little regard for what happened to their supporters or their families after their acts of resistance resulted in them being fired or arrested.

These Russian agents’ deaths would send a clear message: no institutions would be dismantled without the blessing of the real power brokers—and the working class has suffered enough.

There was, of course, one other reason a professional of Martin’s caliber had been sent. The conspirators had kidnapped a minor member of the English royal family: a Duchess so-and-so. Martin never could keep up with the comings and goings of the stuffed shirts who seemed to get a kick out of pretending they still had purpose in this country.

Regardless of who was inside that cabin, both the Firm and the communists recognized the value in such a hostage. The reds wanted to teach her the virtues of Marxism and use her as a spokesperson for their “home-grown” revolution. The Firm, meanwhile, knew there was money in the safe return of the Duchess. Of course, to get that money, they would be taking her hostage from her hostage takers.

Martin reviewed his orders as he made his way back to the duffel drop site. Infiltrate, save the aristocrat, kill everyone else. And make a real mess of them to send a message.

Yet another reason he had settled on the submachine gun beloved by America’s mobster and gangster elite.

Spotting the black cloth in the snow, Martin retrieved the Thompson and rammed a drum magazine home. He confirmed the action worked by chambering the first of the hundred bullets before clipping two additional drum magazines to the back of his belt.

Three hundred bullets ought to do it, I think. He hefted the weapon. They do make this a heavy bugger, though.

Second, he removed his Webley .455 from where it had rested against his hip. It was a memento from his time in the trenches. Unsurprisingly, the sidearm that had worked no matter how much mud and blood seeped into its inner workings showed no issues now.

Finally, with palpable remorse, he stamped out his cigarette in the snow.

Right then. Let’s do our best to follow the tenets of professional courtesy.

That professional courtesy started when he kicked in the door. The Russians had failed to post a lookout. Sloppy.

In front of him, a man in an easy chair looked up from his bowl of steaming soup. Martin let loose, sending up a yellow geyser that covered the Russian’s face while more streamed out of the holes in the porcelain. However, the man’s attention quickly diverted as the bullets continued out the other side of the bowl and slammed into his chest.

The second Russian dove to the floor behind the coffee table. However, he apparently had left his gun on top of the solid oak table and now grasped around blindly.

Martin kicked the table, sending it cartwheeling to rest on top of the man. Both watched as the pistol skidded across the hardwood floor. Then Martin pumped bullets into the communist as he struggled to escape the table’s weight. The sound of the Thompson’s deadly work in the confined space left his ears ringing.

By now, the shock of his initial entry had worn off. No big deal. Martin shrugged as pistol rounds whizzed past his head from the direction of the kitchen. Only the very best could kill three mercenaries without any resistance, and stealth work is bloody tedious.

He took a running start and slid across the floor to cover behind the central chimney. An immaculate maneuver, the kind of slide that fat American Babe Ruth would admire.

Now, what next? Even though Martin’s submachine gun vastly outgunned an ordinary pistol, even the scared communist in the kitchen probably knew he could stay where he was and have the advantage. Martin had to expose himself to get a shot.

Or did he? Martin wagered he had only used 25 of the 100 bullets in the magazine. If there was one thing the Thompson excelled at, it was, as the Americans put it, “spray and pray.” In a confined space like this, he could only shoot in so many directions before he hit his target. And not even the bravest man would stand his ground while the submachine gun roared practically in his face and spat bullets all around him.

Pivoting the Thompson, Martin started firing before he had even rotated the full 90 degrees, walking bullets along the side wall until the entire kitchen was in front of his gun barrel. He held down the trigger, hoping his two exposed hands didn’t catch any return fire.

After three seconds of blind fire, he pivoted while continuing his barrage to face his foe.

He found the man crawling, caught in the legs by a few of the wild shots. Catching sight of Martin, he raised his pistol with a shaking hand, but Martin directed his bucking Thompson toward the floor. The Russian’s blood trail became a lake.

Standing in the shattered ruins of the kitchen, Martin breathed in the concentrated smell of gunpowder and the fainter copper tinge of blood.

Then Martin’s luck ran out as a muffled gasp drew his gaze to the right.

Bollocks, how many of these bastards were there, again?

He found a fourth target in a barren pantry, gun pressed to the temple of a young woman.

“Impressive shooting,” the communist growled from behind her shoulder. “Not every man could kill three of my best.”

Martin weighed his options as he responded. In short, there weren’t any good ones. “That’s why they didn’t send an ordinary man.”

He could kill this Russian, but he didn’t trust the Thompson’s “spray and pray” accuracy. If it were anyone else, he would have emptied the clip, hostage be damned.

There was the Webley, of course, but that was snug in its holster. There was no way he could drop the Thompson, free it, and draw it before the Russian caught on and shot him from behind his human shield.

Best case scenario, he’s a bloody moron and shoots the hostage first. Then maybe I get a bead on him before he can redirect the pistol to me.

Still not a great outcome, but one that perhaps ended with Martin walking out of there. A perk not to be overlooked in the zero-sum game of hostage negotiation.

“No, that much is clear,” the Russian said, chuckling. His English was nearly flawless. “So, what is it that you want?”

Martin mulled it over. Honesty is the best policy. “You dead. Her alive.”

The Russian roared. “Say I cannot deliver that. What else? Money? Take whatever you can find in here. Vasiliev has wads of English money.”

Noted for later—assuming there is a later, Martin thought, then cocked his head. That better not be the bugger I covered in soup.

Then he recalled the Thompson’s ruthless fire rate and realized he’d probably be looking at an envelope of blood-drenched confetti anyway.

“No, I’m afraid money isn’t the goal here, though you could have saved yourself this whole mess if you had been willing to pay the tribute my employers demanded.”

“Too late to have a change of heart, yes?” The Russian was remarkably confident given the situation.

Unfortunate, really. I’m starting to like this man, communist or not.

“This is one lesson they want to be clear.”

“Then I suppose it’s too much to hope we’d both walk out of here alive.” The Russian sighed. “Ah, well.”

Then he jammed the pistol into the woman’s temple and pulled back the hammer.

The Duchess surprised Martin by not flinching. She looked him in the eyes, then seemed to shrink.

The Russian’s free hand had been a vice on her shoulder keeping her from running, but not standing. She dropped toward the floor, and Martin started to raise his Thompson a fraction of a second later. Halfway through pulling the trigger, the Russian watched as her head disappeared from sight. His eyes couldn’t help but follow her trajectory down.

Then the Thompson's flash dragged his eyes back up. It was the last thing he ever saw.

Martin stood over the dying communist and drilled another salvo into him. The firing pin clicked on the empty chamber as the barrel drum finally ran dry.

Only then did Martin turn to the hostage. “Color me impressed with that quick action.”

She responded by grabbing the Russian’s gun where it had come to rest by her feet.

Martin’s shock and empty Thompson saved her. By the time he thought to reach for the Webley, she fired. But instead of hitting him, the bullet went between his calves. Martin turned, finding it hadn’t been a bad aim. Rather, it had been exceptional marksmanship.

Behind him, the broth-soaked man slumped over as the bullet came to rest in his forehead. Trailing blood and cold soup, he had apparently dragged himself across the cabin, bent on making his last act in this world vengeance.

Instead, the former captive had finished him.

“Color me doubly impressed” was all Martin could think to say.

“So what happens now?” the woman asked, keeping hold of the pistol as she stood up.

Martin had barely gotten used to the idea that he’d make it out of this cabin alive, much less with the hostage as well to answer that. He knew his bosses expected him to bring her back to ransom to the royals.

But I can’t be held accountable for faulty intelligence, can I?

Martin met her eyes. “You were never here.”

She cocked her head. “I wasn’t?”

“Nope.” He gestured to the door. “You saved my life at least once outright. Probably twice considering I may never have gotten that shot off if you hadn’t ducked when you did. Consider this a settling of accounts.”

“So my instincts were right.” Martin waited for her to continue. “You weren’t my rescuer.”

“Not quite.” Martin smirked. “More like another hostage taker. But only because my employers know there’s money in it for whoever rescues you. We’re not complete monsters. Unlike the communists.”

“Really?” She looked out over the bullet-riddled bodies and smears of soup. “These ‘monsters’ treated me decently—after the initial abduction, anyhow. Right up until you kicked in the door.”

Martin shrugged. “Sometimes this line of work is messy.”

“In that case, I hope I never have to meet another ‘professional’ of your caliber.”

Martin’s smile widened as he extended his hand. “Name’s Martin.”

After a moment spent staring at him, she took it. “Tessa. Here’s to never meeting again.”

Martin spotted a bottle of gin in the otherwise empty pantry and raised it. “To the next time we never meet, Tessa.”

He uncorked it and started to take a pull when she yanked the bottle from his hands and slung it back. Seeing Martin’s widened eyes, she wiped her lips and said, “For the walk. Looks bloody cold out there.”

He chuckled, watching her step over the bodies to the front door. Then his mind recalled the Russian’s remark about money and set to searching the dead communists.

His worst fears were realized: Vasiliev was the poor bastard he had covered in soup. But by the hand of Providence Himself, the envelope was in the only part of the communist’s jacket not reached by soup, blood, or bullets.

As Martin relit the stove to warm up the half-empty soup pot and settled down to count the decidedly real English pound sterling envelope, he noticed that one of the now-deceased guests had started to write in the guest book:

We drove up the snowy, winding road towards the cozy A-frame cabin.

Based on the specks of blood dotting the corner of the page, Martin’s unexpected visit had interrupted his entry. Martin decided the least he could do for the proprietor who would have to scour bloodstains out of the floorboards and patch bullet holes in the walls was to leave a glowing review.

We found the quaint cottage at the end of the drive just as advertised, he continued, doing his best to match the dead Russian’s handwriting. In a few minutes, we put the pile of ready-cut firewood to good use and had the inside nice and warm. Comfortable furniture, lovely aesthetic, and the view? To die for.

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