Cantu

Pintu was close. The man’s stench was still in the air of this long abandoned safe-house. As Pintu stepped through the rubble he could smell decaying animals and powerful chemicals. He made his way to a still warm notebook lying open on the kitchen table. It was far too dim to investigate it properly so he moved to the only light source, the refrigerator, and opened the door. The name Cantu had been circled then crossed out. Pintu’s blood boiled. Just then soft footsteps and mutterings came from the other room. He quickly sat down, his back to the light.