Shots fired! Get down! Don't move! Her driver kept screaming as she lay snuggled between her seatbelt and the leather Bentley seat with her trembling hands wrapped around her ears and her head to the floor. Everything went numb as shattered glass sprayed all over the back seat, some even sticking to her hair. Her hearing was fuzzy as the heavy artillery her supposed assassins used rang out uncontrollably, piercing the unusually serene highway air.
The driver kept on swivelling and controlling the car as much as he could with a bullet stuck in his arm and before she could scream, the dark-tinted SUV which was in a hot chase with them ran into the convertible, sending them flying into the woods and ending up stuck in a ditch. She finally made it to her driver who pushed her out of the car signalling her to run.
"There she is! Get her! Quick!" The leader of the assassins ordered with a thick British accent as he raised his tattoo-ridden arm in the direction in which she limped off. Hardly had she covered any distance, had they caught up with her as her injured leg did nothing but slow her down.
She was wrestled down, restricted, and dragged to their waiting getaway car with hereditary hands in cuffs, face soaked in tears smearing her makeup and quivering lips blabbing away endless pleas.
A while ago, she was on the way to her office scanning through some documents with absolutely nothing to fidget about, now it seemed her haughty spoiled rich kid life was about to fall to pieces.
Her name is Jane and she is a 25-year-old accountant, an only child to Mr. and Mrs. Morrison, meaning she was next in line to inherit her parents' wealth. She is a modelled blonde with an envied structure that fits curvy hips into long flawless legs, a slightly chiselled jaw, and sky-blue eyes that people always seemed to get lost in. Not to brag but, she is perfect.
But here she was. The "perfect" dream girl lay tied up and unconscious at the back of a truck surrounded by men she knew only one thing about; they meant no good for her. Well, she hopes to get through this.
****
"Sir, we will get back to you."
Marcus sat composed at the other end of the mahogany desk as the manager spat out those words. He was sick and tired of hearing that verdict as it only exclaimed he had just lost another revenue source. But this time, he wasn't going to take it.
So with his hand slamming the desk, he barked; "No you won't. Why do you people always say that when you know it's never going to happen?"
"Sir, please behave or I'll have to call security," a now frightened manager cautioned.
"Go ahead. You are lucky I don't hurt women, if not you'd be unconscious before you know it."
Grabbing the documents he stormed out of the office jamming the door noisily on his way out. He hissed out of frustration as he thought this week was going to be less sordid. His mother and sister were counting on him and the bills were stacking up, he needed to figure another way out soon. Sighing, he unwounded the patched-up seat of his old beat-up truck and lay back muttering under his breath "If Brian were here, he would know what to do."
Just as sleep was about to sting his eyelids, he heard a gunshot. Bang! His eyelids flipped open and his whole body jerkily arose. The sound alone was enough to flood his skin with goosebumps. On impulse, he flicked his car on, put it in motion, and followed the dispersing crowd to scurry away, not minding his extended seat.
Then he picked up a sound. It's a voice so sweet yet so torn, a lady's scream. He says suddenly hits the brakes, pulling the car to a concealed stop where he analyzes the situation before him.
He saw a lady about his age hopping on one leg unsuccessful in escaping from the grasp of her attacker. He suddenly felt this urge to intervene, so he pulled out his pistol from the glove compartment of his truck and headed out stealthily with his weapon loaded and ready to discharge, held upright in front of him.
"Let's go. The client is waiting," he watched as who he figured to be the leader of the three men gang commanded the remaining two in his hoarse accent.
"Boss, I need to urinate!"
"Are you stupid? Make it quick eh!" The boss thundered to the accomplice, who advanced further into the woods, as he occupied the passenger seat next to their driver.
Taking advantage of the loose-end opportunity, Marcus snuck up behind the man and wrapped his arm around the predator's neck, taking him to the ground in seconds and incapacitating him from alerting the others by stuffing the man's mouth with his handkerchief.
He then advanced to the car and occupied the back area silently and while they were debating on what was taking the man so long, he buried a blade in the driver's neck causing the hands-on wheels to unleash his firearm blindly into the dashboard of the car.
The kidnappers were dazzled as they were not expecting any rescue response for the next five minutes. This placed the boss in shock but before he could reach for his gun, one of his partner's bullets had greased his arm leaving a deep flesh wound. With his hand dripping blood, he sprang out of the car and headed to the bushes where he slowly crawled through the dew-carpeted forest floor until he was out of sight.
Meanwhile, when Marcus had made sure the assassins were all gone, he went back in the car and uncuffed the lady with the keys he found in the driver's coat, untied her feet, cupped her in his arms, and hurried over to his truck across the street and phoned the police. He then paused to take a look at the masterpiece that lay before him.
She had fair skin so smooth your hand could easily slip while grabbing it, a figure that fitted with ease into the short sleeve gown she had on, and silky blonde hair. He couldn't help but trail his tender nail tips as he wiped the blood off her long flawless legs. He wondered, "why would anyone want to hurt her?"
The blaring sirens followed by flashing blue and red lights signalled the police were incoming so he stepped off his truck and stood still waiting to be interrogated.