Capital Offense

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“What’s deadlier to a country than war?” a low, gravelly voice slurred.

“Who is this?” Jack Rudly cradled the phone against his ear and checked the time: 2:55 A.M. A strewth outside his hotel room window cast a shadow of dancing leaves across the ceiling.

“What’s deadlier to a country than war?”

“I don’t do riddles.” Jack slammed down the receiver. “Damn drunk.” He watched the shadows dissolve into darkness, then spring back to life as gusts of wind bent the tree branches outside the window. He turned on his side, pulled the sheet up over his shoulder and tucked his face in against the pillow.

After a few moments, he lifted his head and looked over at his laptop. He still needed to finish his article on trade with Japan. Sailboats twirled around on his screen saver. Who was he kidding? He’d never fall back to slept. Too many projects to think about and deadlines to meet. Jack rubbed his eyes. He loved being a journalist, and even years of sleep deprivation didn’t deter his passion.

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