• Dana Webster

Fiction Alert!

Updated: Oct 15


Thought I'd change it up this week and share a work of fiction with you.


Introducing my new kick-ass heroine, Rae!



The End of Snow

~ Dana Webster

What she noticed first, he had short hair, shaped and sharply cut behind his ears and across the curve of his forehead. From a distance, you might think he was wearing a white, knit cap. She looked again at the photo on her iPhone, the head shot that came to her anonymously from headquarters. In this photo, he had brown hair, longish, little curls of brunette tucked behind his ears. How she knew the guy in the photo was the same as the guy in the café? The face. Handsome, square, cool, eyes that have seen it all. Smart thing would have been to grow a beard in the time since his disappearing act. Even a mustache would signal he was at least trying to stay hidden. But she knew these pretty boys; they were all about the dare, about the desire to be known and admired and to still get away with shit.

Well, not this time.

She waited in the shadows of a doorway on the other side of the boulevard, watching him through the plate glass window of the cafe, first standing in line scrolling through his phone, casual, not a care in the world. Placing his order, seeing him hand over some cash. He turned, coffee in hand, and made for the exit.

He took a left, heading north. She waited till he put enough distance between them, and she set out. Followed at his pace, up the sidewalk, dodged the odd other pedestrian. A couple blocks later, he stepped into the street, holding up while a car passed, and hastened his steps to cross to the other side. She slowed her pace, kept to the inner edge of the sidewalk and watched him deek down an alleyway

She wasn’t expecting this. Her heart beat a little faster. Had he made her? Was she exposed? No matter, she was going in anyway. Before entering the alley, she let her eyes adjust to the darkness. It smelled in there of too much urine and vomit.

Slowly, she entered. Her body was tingling, warning. Long ago, she had learned to befriend the fear. She drew her gun from the holster under her jacket, finger caressing the trigger. There was not a sound and no sign of him.

She was deciding her next steps just as he stepped out from the shadows. A silhouette against the early evening sun. His stance, two feet planted firmly on the pavement, bracing. She could barely make out his face, but she could see the white of his hair. She raised her gun.

“So, you’ve come for me,” he said, matter-of-fact, as though she weren’t hunting him.

“Yeah, I’ve come for you. Can’t say you were hard to find.”

“Can’t say I wanted to be.”

“Too bad,” she said, “I was hoping for a challenge, but you’ve turned out to be such a disappointing assignment.” And, with that, she pulled the trigger. Once, twice, in quick succession. She was aiming for his heart and she was right on target. He fell backward, the velocity of the shots knocking him off his feet, the cup of coffee spewing cream-coloured liquid across the pavement.

Two fingers on his carotid confirmed he was dead. She pulled her iPhone out of her back pocket and called up his file. The photo of him, and below that, his code name: Snow.

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