Breach of Power

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When the Austrians came for him, he knew what they wanted.

The journal.

He could never let them have it. That would be his death sentence.

He ran down the corridor, grabbed a coat from the resort's coat closet, tucked the journal inside an interior pocket, and buttoned it tight. He slipped on his gloves and ventured out into the storm.

Howling wind buffeted against his body. Ice crystals ripped at his exposed flesh like tiny shards of glass. Snow crunched beneath his boots. With each laborious step, the deeper drifts swallowed his legs to his knees. Without goggles his eyes stung and his eyelashes froze. Ice clung to his brows. He wiped it away with the back of his glove.

The 1917 Waterbury watch his father gave him, his only possession other than the clothes on his back, read 1:00. His father had carried it during World War I. Now it was his only heirloom. The last evidence that he had a past.

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