Startled, I awoke and was thrust forward, the seat belt giving a mighty yank across my neck and chest.
“What the f—” I said. An unexpected ripple of pain tore through my body.
“Wake up! We got company,” Vance said.
I perked up and glanced over my left shoulder, taking a moment to briefly rub sleep from my vision and to absorb the pain. A large, black vehicle with tinted windows was on our bumper.
“Did they just hit us?” I asked.
“Damn right they did. If they fuck up this car, I’m going to rearrange some faces. Cavanaugh’ll never let me hear the end of it.”
“How in the hell did they find us?”
“Maybe they put something on your phone, too. They want that stick in your bra. Bad. But they’re not going to get it. Hold on.”
He jerked the wheel to the right, and we started spinning. Vance was a tactical driving expert, so if we were spinning, he meant for us to be spinning. It didn’t make it any less terrifying, however.
The raindrops on the windshield were illuminated by the other car’s headlights as we continued through our swirling vortex of blurry lights. Millions of them danced in my eyes, blinding me. I clutched the side of the door as the tires screeched and slid to a stop. Thank God my stomach was empty otherwise I would have lost the contents right then and there.
The second moment of impact was more jarring than the first. Crunching metal and the tinkling of shattering glass on the asphalt rang in my ears. I was dazed but I looked over in time to see Vance getting out of the car grabbing for his gun.
“Wait!” I shouted. “Don’t go!”
I reached for him, but he was already gone.
Coming spring of 2015
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Copyright © 2015 by Emerson Shaw. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form by any means.
Fair Play
A prequel novella to Word Play
by Amalie Silver
Chapter One
Michael
August 18, 2006
Seattle, WA
“Mark my words, Jack. One day I’ll write a memoir of all the crazy shit that goes down in this business, starting with all the clichés of a writer,” I said, lifting my glass to cheer him.
“Like the fact that we all have a drinking problem, Mike?” Jack chided, clinking his whiskey glass to mine. Everyone at the table dipped their heads in shame and looked around the room, pretending they didn’t hear him.
Except for me.
“That, my friend, would only be considered a cliché if it weren’t true. But we’re all drunks—every last one of us. How else are we supposed to cope with the criticism?”