Into The Lion’s Den
A Short Story
Connor Clancy was sitting on a low wall outside Milano Centrale station, wearing a black suit — jacket, trousers, and waistcoat — although it was too hot for a suit. He had been there for hours, slowly drenching in the drizzling rain, while, behind him, commuters fought their way out of the station. The concourse was a tangle of cars, taxis, and pedestrians, all of them trying to find their way home. A traffic light blinked from red to green, but nothing moved. Somebody leaned on their horn and the noise blared out, cutting through the damp evening air. Connor jerked his head, his stormy eyes darting from right to left in quick nervous jolts, until he identified the source of the sound.
A taxi suddenly stopped right in front of him, and the driver, an old Indian guy with a raspy voice, asked him if he needed a ride. The driver seemed scared, though, scared by him. He should have been. Everything in Connor appeared dangerous: his way of sitting — hunched forward with his knees apart; his broad shoulders; his gigantic stature; his muscular body; his black menacing eyes; and his hair, cut very short.
His real name wasn’t Connor. Matter of fact, he didn’t even remember having a real name. Right now, he was Connor, and Connor was the name on all his fake documents, but only a week had passed since he was Riley, and another two since he was…
