The rain outside could be heard over the faint sound of a radio.
The blood was dripping from his still-clenched fist. Hunched over the now lifeless body of this man, in a strange motel room.
Countless thoughts and images ran through his head, as he struggled to stay standing up. Broken glass and ruined dinners lay scattered across the floor like an artist's nightmare.
One deep breath. The first one since this whole scenario went south.
His eyes shift to the briefcase, still upright on the table. Good.
The distant sound of sirens awakens him from a haze, and he feels for any damage from the struggle. A few minor cuts, tenderness in the ribs. Might be a good idea to take it slow for now, but no time. The ill-prepared first officers on scene are gathering outside.
Red and blue lights flood the dingy room, the linens strewn across the bed and night table. The maid is going to love this. Fists still stiff, he scans the room for any help, in the form of a blunt object or sharp tool. Of course. The knife. The son-of-a-bitch pulled one on him.
The blade was under the bed, kicked there in a last ditch effort to avoid certain demise. By now, the boys in blue on the other side of the door were preparing for a breach.
The odour of sweat and terror is musky and the room is spinning. No time to lose it. Knife in hand, he grabs the blood-crusted handle of the briefcase and walks to the door, listening.
He has at least fifteen feet between him and the growing number of law enforcement thugs outside.
If there was a chance to make a move this was it.
He puts the case down and carefully places his hand on the door knob and turns it...
Sept 19 2010
