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.
Smith was tall, even taller than Hugo’s 6 feet 3 inches with twenty years of experience more than him in all kinds of dark dangerous places that didn’t bear thinking about.
Smith lowered the gun to his side.
“OK, one question and I’ll only ask once. You’re a three strike loser and no-one knows or even cares that you’re still alive”
“Are you ready go to the farm?”
Hugo smiled opening the cut on his lower lip. Through the stinging pain he said, “How can I refuse?”