This is the first story I’ve done for Friday Fictioneers that is a continuation of a previous story. I took everyone’s suggestion and wrote another story about Peregrine. I’m sorry that I could not get to many people’s stories last week to read. I really enjoy reading them, but life is crazy busy sometimes.
The coordinates brought Peregrine to a deserted cemetery. The next numbers were chalked on the side of a gravestone. He looked them up: central Algeria, the bastards.
Later, in his Astana hotel, Peregrine sat with vodka and paper, drowning his despair and clutching at hope. He had chased 42 clues, like white rabbits, all over the world but still no progress, no message, no sign of life. Only more coordinates to chase.
He tried ciphers, rearranging the numbers, looking for any kind of clue. A chill went down his spine as words suddenly formed from the numbers: BECKY IS HERE.