In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Race the Clock.”
The muzzle never waivered, didn’t even move an inch. Despite the cold ball of fear in my stomach Hugo was impressed. The glock was cocked, round chambered, ready to explode in my sore bloody face and it had been pointing at my head for 20 minutes. That’s along time to keep a heavy lump of metal at arms length.
“Nǐ shì shuí?”
“For the last time I don’t speak Chinese” Hugo lied for the eleventh time through swollen lips and a haze of pain. His wrists were chafing on the ropes that bound his arms to the pipe overhead.