For the first time since I launched us both from that damned office window, the little whiney fuckwit opens his mouth with something close enough to words for me to understand. Almost every syllable stuttering their way out as if he's having to drag them from some where deep inside his throat, "w-what do you-ou m-mean? Th-th-they're my p-people. W-why would th-they-"
"-They stopped being your people the moment you started leaking data to my people. Now if I hadn't of hauled your scruffy li'l arse out of there, I'm damn sure you'd be dead already."
"B-but no one was sh-shooting 'til you turned up," he mumbles dejectedly while vaguely wiping at the sweat dripping from his chin, eyes darting around trying to see everything at once.
"So what?! I hit you with a taser, they came for you with guns. Could just leave you here if you like!" I shift myself as if to get up and go without him. Almost instantly I feel the firm grip of his long fingers wrap around my arm. Glancing down I see the fear in his eyes, both wide open with his lower lip trembling trying to drag some words out again. Before he manages to dribble a word or two a loud crash of gun fire ricocheting above our heads cuts him off, forcing us both to duck back down behind the low wall we stopped at to catch our breath.
"Just stick with me and we might both survive!" I hiss at him before twisting my wrist, clenching my hand over his and pulling to rush us further along the alleyway. The miniskirts of prostitutes, greasy palms of drug dealers and the stench of overflowing bins all swiftly flash by as we zoom passed them. Finally reaching the end I stop before turning us onto the bustling highstreet and scan the crowds, blocking my tag along from stepping out with an outstreched arm. I'm hoping we can lose our tail in the crowds and traffic, but hell even a dive through the sky didn't shake them...
"Shit!"
I spin around suddenly and slam the idiot to the ground, firmly placing a knee on his chest, with one hand on his throat while I use the other to hold open his mouth so I can get a look inside. He writhes around trying to break free, eyes practically popping out of his skull.
"Stay still! There's a fuckin' tracker in your mouth!"
I soften my grip with the one hand as he goes limp beneath me, eyes closing, resigned to what he must know is coming next. Using my free arm I slip my bag off my shoulder and pull a pair of pliers from inside.
"Sorry buddy, but this is gonna hurt."
I stuff the pliers in clasping at the only tooth looking recently filled and yank it out before quickly covering his mouth to muffle the scream of pain. As soon as I feel him choke, I let go, rolling him onto his side so he can spit the blood out and breathe. Last thing we need is more eyes on us, but no one turns their heads to check out the commotion. Can't say I'm surprised really, most people would rather keep their heads down and get back to their families than get shot or arrested over anything that doesn't directly concern them.
Now that it's only cameras and any feet they have on the street the arseholes can use to track us, we should be able to lose them without much difficulty. Doesn't mean we're out of the woods just yet though. But at the very least we're a step ahead and not pinging our location to them as we go along.
Better get this guy cleaned up as soon as possible. The crowds may not be interested in us, but any uniforms we come across most certainly would be.
About the Creator
L.R
I mostly find myself here to release creative flair, but also like to pass on what knowledge I can, so the odd tutorial and/or guide worms it's way to the forefront of my mind along the way =)
Peanuts and Crackerjack
Bottom of the ninth inning. The game is tied with two outs, two strikes and a man on second. I tap the bat on home plate. The rigid vibrations it creates reminds my aching digits that this isn't over. The practice swing only adds to the heft of mental burnout... Man on second, willing to chance it. Pitcher eyes him but doesn't give in to the dangerous bluff. I kick up dust, readying the peculiar stance I've had since the days of little league. The bat lays stiff upon my cramping shoulder. Pain has no reason to be acknowledged; it's a fleeting afterthought. The sun sits passed high noon, but the stadium lights are on anyway. They trick my brain into believing they are the cause of this sweltering heat. Sporadic clouds are motionless, they too, don't want to miss this exhilarating predicament. Anticipating the next pitch, intensifying roars from the crowd rumble the stadium... Behind me, the crafty catcher adjusts his stance and spits to the dry dirt. Behind him, the staunch umpire doesn't flinch or even blink; he knows how important his call will be. The pitcher winds up, his grip tells me its gonna curve. The release is fierce! Beads of sweat from his hair and face disperse in every direction as the force of his might is unfailing. My left leg lifts—an instinctual move that will increase the power of my swing. It's all down to my two, bloodshot eyes. They lock onto the speeding, white dot as it instantly becomes the target I intend to destroy. The swing is late, but I manage a solid tip. The ball is taking a fast bounce toward the pitcher who is recovering from the almighty throw! Man on second leaves in a desperate rush! I fling the bat to the side with a sense of urgency and make a mad sprint to the only destination I have—first base. Three defenders race inward to be the first to retrieve the skidding ball. Man is almost on third! I watch the open glove of my adversary, wondering if I’ve done enough to win this race. I switch my attention to his eyes, looking for a clue, some kind of reaction that tells me the ball is in the air and heading his way. All I see is frustration. The deafening roar of the crowd spikes! Something happens that I can’t see! My opponent abandons his post right as my left stride touches the bag. I waste no time turning my head to see the pitcher laying on his stomach, pounding the mound with an open glove. He misses the opportunity to out me and the ball has quickly bounced past him. Excitement grows! This isn’t over yet... It's become an imperative fight to tag out the runner heading homeward. The catcher falls to his knees in obvious despair as he watches my teammate make the run of his life. He knows it’s going to be close when he sees the shortstop fumble the ball a second too long. I jump up and down with no plans on leaving first base. All my chips are on the speed and agility of the active runner. His cleats dig into the dirt, trailing a dust-filled cyclone from the rapid and strenuous strides. With a thrusting dive and an outstretched arm, he lands on his chest to begin the crucial slide to home plate. The shortstop fires the ball to the catcher! It immediately begins closing the gap! Nail-biting doesn't begin to describe the anxious vibe permeating the stadium. The bench begins to celebrate even before he reaches the plate. Forty thousand cheering fans reach maximum crescendo, filling the air with a glorious sound. Everyone knows how this story will end… My teammate is met by the entire bench as his fingers inch across home plate, instantly followed by the unmistakable motion of the catcher's glove attempting to tag him out—its milliseconds too late. The ump swings his arms outward, officially calling him safe.
By Lamar Wiggins7 days ago in Fiction
Verdict In a Minute
This article serves as an index for my series of courtroom drama stories. I started out with the first story for the Just A Minute challenge and realized, prompted by Hannah Moore, that it could be told from different angles and perspectives of various characters.
By Lana V Lynxa day ago in Fiction
Comments (1)
Exciting stuff here. I feel like i am watching a movie. Great writing.