Chance meeting

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Photo Copyright: Melanie Greenwood

Victor pulled Brittany’s arm and yanked her out of the pink chair.

“Let go. You’re hurting my arm,” said Brittany.

His grip increased, “I got your text. It’s not over until I say so,” said Victor.

Victor started to slap her, when his hand was pinned behind his back by a man with abs visible though his t-shirt. Victor howled in pain and released Brittany’s arm.

The man said, “Apologize.”

Victor croaked, “I’m sorry.”

The man released Victor. “Now leave.”

“Brittany, this isn’t over,” said Victor and stormed off.

“Thanks…,” said Brittany.

“Harold and you’re welcome,” said the man.

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The kidnapper

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 Photo Copyright: The Reclining Gentleman

Only one man stood at the midway point of the bridge. As Patricia approached with the rolling cooler she started to sweat.

“Where’s the money,” said the kidnapper?

“Where’s Henry? I want proof he’s alive,” said Patricia.

The kidnapper handed Patricia an iPhone. “Hit redial.”

The call picked up on the first ring. Seconds later came Henry’s hoarse voice, “Hello.”

“Henry, don’t worry….,” the call dropped.

“The money’s in the cooler,” said Patricia.

A van speed up the bridge. Tires squealed, the door opened and Henry dropped out of the van. As Henry and Patricia embraced, two gunshots rang out.

Patricia’s morning

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 Photo Coypright: Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

 

Patricia peered through the window of the music shop. Her view blocked by keyboards. How does he work in this mess?

“Call me,” she texted.

Henry better have a good reason for standing me up last night? Thirty minutes passed with no response.

This isn’t like him. What if he’s hurt? She called the police. A patrol car arrived an hour later.

The patrol officer said, “Are you Patricia Harris,” to the woman pacing?

She stared at her clasped hands, “My..um..boss..Henry…Petzel is missing?”

“Miss Harris, you’ll need to speak with missing persons. We’ll take you.”

Randal’s journey continued…

 

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 Photo Copyright: Kent Bonham

 

Randal threw the headset at the instrument panel. “I’m on my own.”

He rummaged the downed helicopter to find a S&W MP 9mm, and a knife. A sharp pain shot up his back as he exited.

“Don’t move… Where’s the pilot?” said a female voice.

His grip tightened around the gun. “He’s dead.”

“Good, now face me. No sudden movements.”

He turned, keeping the gun out of sight. A Spanish beauty held a spear to his chest.

“Please, I want to go home,” he said.

Tears fell as the spear dropped. “So do I, but your pilot stranded me here.”