One of the winning entries from the Platypus Day flash fiction contest.
The Platypus was confused. A single drop of blood coursed its way down his forehead, foreshadowing more to come. He was injured, dazed. But he was also a trained killer, an ex-recon marine. And like the odd, venomous, semi-aquatic mammal which had loaned him its name, he was deadly when cornered. Carefully, he searched the bleak arctic horizon outside Lenvik. It was a dark and bitterly cold night, and visibility was low. At long last, he saw what he was looking for- a target. Someone was about to find out what it meant to try and double-cross the Platypus. Someone was about to pay.