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Inside the bar the air is stuffy and hot. The barflies like it this way as nobody feels obliged to force conversation because of the suffocating atmosphere, and the barman enjoys the comfortable silence as it clarifies the soft sounds of country music from the jukebox, so the windows remain closed.
The man who works the bar is Mike Russel. He was jailed two years ago for multiple grand theft auto and now runs his own, legitimate business on a desolate dust trail in the outskirts of Utah. He refuses to let anyone else operate the jukebox, which he likes to use to repeat the same song over and over. Today he wears a stained cotton apron and a slight smile as he listens.
A black sedan pulls up outside the entrance, ignoring the side car park. Two men exit and walk into the bar, immediately at contrast to the peaceful atmosphere. Mike’s smile fades. He’s suddenly tense and still. None of the men at the bar avert their gaze from its wooden surface.
“Kill the music, Mike.” He does. The speaker holds up an unassuming black briefcase and Mike indicates towards the back door. The other man remains silent and walks closely behind as the man with the briefcase walks to the door.
Easily conspicuous to the naked eye, the regulars recognise that the door is there, yet neither ask or care about what lies behind it. Aside from the rigid stare of the barman, not an eye moves as the door opens and closes as the two men walk through it.
“Welcome to the jungle, gentlemen.” Across the cluttered floor of the cramped room sits Samuel Jacobson, calm and smiling, behind a small desk. He oversees everyone and everything that enters the room, and all that leaves. Behind him, a bolt of yellow light strikes boldly into the room through a small window, illuminating particles of dust as they float in and out of the radiant beam. A flat screen monitor, keyboard and mouse sit atop the desk, alone – he doesn’t like clustered spaces, he likes to lean back on his chair as he works. “What can we do for you today?”
One of the two men removes a silenced pistol from the inside of his jacket and aims it at Samuel’s head, firing before his surprised victim has time to call out. The silencer rings briefly after the shot is fired, and the two men listen carefully. Inside the bar the familiar silence has now returned, and Mike is once again at ease. Back inside the small room, the doorman slides heavily off his chair into a crumpled heap on the floor. Convinced of their security, the two men proceed.
Working together, they clear a space in the middle of the floor, revealing a sturdy trapdoor. The man with the briefcase climbs down as the other holds the door open. There is no musty stench in this basement, no stale air and no thick darkness – it is the clearest and cleanest place in the entire building, yet the briefcase carrier takes little notice. Against one wall is a mainframe computer and against the other an organised storage section. One man is carrying out some form of administration with the computer, while another looks to be loading substances into the storage facility. A third approaches the briefcase carrier, who places the black case on a table to the left of him.
“He returns.” says the third man; Jason Reyes, “We haven’t seen you in about a week. Alex was starting to worry.” The man at the computer grins, but doesn’t look up. “So, you want us to hold this for you?” The carrier nods. “And the doorman okayed it?” He nods again. “Alright. I guess we’ll see you soon.”
“Bye.”
The ex-carrier walks back up and his partner closes the noticeable hatch. They leave it exposed. The tension returns as the two men walk quickly back across the bar. Now outside, they get into the car and drive up the long, straight road. Mike waits until the car's engine dies away before he moves towards the jukebox again. The black sedan begins to slow down at the top of the road, and stops.
The explosion comes suddenly, rocking the world around it. The bar is devastated by the burning blast of dust and flame from underneath, as the formidable blaze of fire destroys the solitary building, the bright light reflected in the bonnet of the black sedan.
Once the chaos subsides, the car returns, a blue light flashing on its top as it approaches the flaming wreckage. The sedan pulls up beside the fractured debris, and two men exit, silently.
The man who works the bar is Mike Russel. He was jailed two years ago for multiple grand theft auto and now runs his own, legitimate business on a desolate dust trail in the outskirts of Utah. He refuses to let anyone else operate the jukebox, which he likes to use to repeat the same song over and over. Today he wears a stained cotton apron and a slight smile as he listens.
A black sedan pulls up outside the entrance, ignoring the side car park. Two men exit and walk into the bar, immediately at contrast to the peaceful atmosphere. Mike’s smile fades. He’s suddenly tense and still. None of the men at the bar avert their gaze from its wooden surface.
“Kill the music, Mike.” He does. The speaker holds up an unassuming black briefcase and Mike indicates towards the back door. The other man remains silent and walks closely behind as the man with the briefcase walks to the door.
Easily conspicuous to the naked eye, the regulars recognise that the door is there, yet neither ask or care about what lies behind it. Aside from the rigid stare of the barman, not an eye moves as the door opens and closes as the two men walk through it.
“Welcome to the jungle, gentlemen.” Across the cluttered floor of the cramped room sits Samuel Jacobson, calm and smiling, behind a small desk. He oversees everyone and everything that enters the room, and all that leaves. Behind him, a bolt of yellow light strikes boldly into the room through a small window, illuminating particles of dust as they float in and out of the radiant beam. A flat screen monitor, keyboard and mouse sit atop the desk, alone – he doesn’t like clustered spaces, he likes to lean back on his chair as he works. “What can we do for you today?”
One of the two men removes a silenced pistol from the inside of his jacket and aims it at Samuel’s head, firing before his surprised victim has time to call out. The silencer rings briefly after the shot is fired, and the two men listen carefully. Inside the bar the familiar silence has now returned, and Mike is once again at ease. Back inside the small room, the doorman slides heavily off his chair into a crumpled heap on the floor. Convinced of their security, the two men proceed.
Working together, they clear a space in the middle of the floor, revealing a sturdy trapdoor. The man with the briefcase climbs down as the other holds the door open. There is no musty stench in this basement, no stale air and no thick darkness – it is the clearest and cleanest place in the entire building, yet the briefcase carrier takes little notice. Against one wall is a mainframe computer and against the other an organised storage section. One man is carrying out some form of administration with the computer, while another looks to be loading substances into the storage facility. A third approaches the briefcase carrier, who places the black case on a table to the left of him.
“He returns.” says the third man; Jason Reyes, “We haven’t seen you in about a week. Alex was starting to worry.” The man at the computer grins, but doesn’t look up. “So, you want us to hold this for you?” The carrier nods. “And the doorman okayed it?” He nods again. “Alright. I guess we’ll see you soon.”
“Bye.”
The ex-carrier walks back up and his partner closes the noticeable hatch. They leave it exposed. The tension returns as the two men walk quickly back across the bar. Now outside, they get into the car and drive up the long, straight road. Mike waits until the car's engine dies away before he moves towards the jukebox again. The black sedan begins to slow down at the top of the road, and stops.
The explosion comes suddenly, rocking the world around it. The bar is devastated by the burning blast of dust and flame from underneath, as the formidable blaze of fire destroys the solitary building, the bright light reflected in the bonnet of the black sedan.
Once the chaos subsides, the car returns, a blue light flashing on its top as it approaches the flaming wreckage. The sedan pulls up beside the fractured debris, and two men exit, silently.
Page:
I know - shockingly late, but I started it and felt I should finish it.
I hope you enjoy it.
I hope you enjoy it.
Inside the bar the air is stuffy and hot. The barflies like it this way as nobody feels obliged to force conversation because of the suffocating atmosphere, and the barman enjoys the comfortable silence as it clarifies the soft sounds of country music from the jukebox, so the windows remain closed.
The man who works the bar is Mike Russel. He was jailed two years ago for multiple grand theft auto and now runs his own, legitimate business on a desolate dust trail in the outskirts of Utah. He refuses to let anyone else operate the jukebox, which he likes to use to repeat the same song over and over. Today he wears a stained cotton apron and a slight smile as he listens.
A black sedan pulls up outside the entrance, ignoring the side car park. Two men exit and walk into the bar, immediately at contrast to the peaceful atmosphere. Mike’s smile fades. He’s suddenly tense and still. None of the men at the bar avert their gaze from its wooden surface.
“Kill the music, Mike.” He does. The speaker holds up an unassuming black briefcase and Mike indicates towards the back door. The other man remains silent and walks closely behind as the man with the briefcase walks to the door.
Easily conspicuous to the naked eye, the regulars recognise that the door is there, yet neither ask or care about what lies behind it. Aside from the rigid stare of the barman, not an eye moves as the door opens and closes as the two men walk through it.
“Welcome to the jungle, gentlemen.” Across the cluttered floor of the cramped room sits Samuel Jacobson, calm and smiling, behind a small desk. He oversees everyone and everything that enters the room, and all that leaves. Behind him, a bolt of yellow light strikes boldly into the room through a small window, illuminating particles of dust as they float in and out of the radiant beam. A flat screen monitor, keyboard and mouse sit atop the desk, alone – he doesn’t like clustered spaces, he likes to lean back on his chair as he works. “What can we do for you today?”
One of the two men removes a silenced pistol from the inside of his jacket and aims it at Samuel’s head, firing before his surprised victim has time to call out. The silencer rings briefly after the shot is fired, and the two men listen carefully. Inside the bar the familiar silence has now returned, and Mike is once again at ease. Back inside the small room, the doorman slides heavily off his chair into a crumpled heap on the floor. Convinced of their security, the two men proceed.
Working together, they clear a space in the middle of the floor, revealing a sturdy trapdoor. The man with the briefcase climbs down as the other holds the door open. There is no musty stench in this basement, no stale air and no thick darkness – it is the clearest and cleanest place in the entire building, yet the briefcase carrier takes little notice. Against one wall is a mainframe computer and against the other an organised storage section. One man is carrying out some form of administration with the computer, while another looks to be loading substances into the storage facility. A third approaches the briefcase carrier, who places the black case on a table to the left of him.
“He returns.” says the third man; Jason Reyes, “We haven’t seen you in about a week. Alex was starting to worry.” The man at the computer grins, but doesn’t look up. “So, you want us to hold this for you?” The carrier nods. “And the doorman okayed it?” He nods again. “Alright. I guess we’ll see you soon.”
“Bye.”
The ex-carrier walks back up and his partner closes the noticeable hatch. They leave it exposed. The tension returns as the two men walk quickly back across the bar. Now outside, they get into the car and drive up the long, straight road. Mike waits until the car's engine dies away before he moves towards the jukebox again. The black sedan begins to slow down at the top of the road, and stops.
The explosion comes suddenly, rocking the world around it. The bar is devastated by the burning blast of dust and flame from underneath, as the formidable blaze of fire destroys the solitary building, the bright light reflected in the bonnet of the black sedan.
Once the chaos subsides, the car returns, a blue light flashing on its top as it approaches the flaming wreckage. The sedan pulls up beside the fractured debris, and two men exit, silently.
The man who works the bar is Mike Russel. He was jailed two years ago for multiple grand theft auto and now runs his own, legitimate business on a desolate dust trail in the outskirts of Utah. He refuses to let anyone else operate the jukebox, which he likes to use to repeat the same song over and over. Today he wears a stained cotton apron and a slight smile as he listens.
A black sedan pulls up outside the entrance, ignoring the side car park. Two men exit and walk into the bar, immediately at contrast to the peaceful atmosphere. Mike’s smile fades. He’s suddenly tense and still. None of the men at the bar avert their gaze from its wooden surface.
“Kill the music, Mike.” He does. The speaker holds up an unassuming black briefcase and Mike indicates towards the back door. The other man remains silent and walks closely behind as the man with the briefcase walks to the door.
Easily conspicuous to the naked eye, the regulars recognise that the door is there, yet neither ask or care about what lies behind it. Aside from the rigid stare of the barman, not an eye moves as the door opens and closes as the two men walk through it.
“Welcome to the jungle, gentlemen.” Across the cluttered floor of the cramped room sits Samuel Jacobson, calm and smiling, behind a small desk. He oversees everyone and everything that enters the room, and all that leaves. Behind him, a bolt of yellow light strikes boldly into the room through a small window, illuminating particles of dust as they float in and out of the radiant beam. A flat screen monitor, keyboard and mouse sit atop the desk, alone – he doesn’t like clustered spaces, he likes to lean back on his chair as he works. “What can we do for you today?”
One of the two men removes a silenced pistol from the inside of his jacket and aims it at Samuel’s head, firing before his surprised victim has time to call out. The silencer rings briefly after the shot is fired, and the two men listen carefully. Inside the bar the familiar silence has now returned, and Mike is once again at ease. Back inside the small room, the doorman slides heavily off his chair into a crumpled heap on the floor. Convinced of their security, the two men proceed.
Working together, they clear a space in the middle of the floor, revealing a sturdy trapdoor. The man with the briefcase climbs down as the other holds the door open. There is no musty stench in this basement, no stale air and no thick darkness – it is the clearest and cleanest place in the entire building, yet the briefcase carrier takes little notice. Against one wall is a mainframe computer and against the other an organised storage section. One man is carrying out some form of administration with the computer, while another looks to be loading substances into the storage facility. A third approaches the briefcase carrier, who places the black case on a table to the left of him.
“He returns.” says the third man; Jason Reyes, “We haven’t seen you in about a week. Alex was starting to worry.” The man at the computer grins, but doesn’t look up. “So, you want us to hold this for you?” The carrier nods. “And the doorman okayed it?” He nods again. “Alright. I guess we’ll see you soon.”
“Bye.”
The ex-carrier walks back up and his partner closes the noticeable hatch. They leave it exposed. The tension returns as the two men walk quickly back across the bar. Now outside, they get into the car and drive up the long, straight road. Mike waits until the car's engine dies away before he moves towards the jukebox again. The black sedan begins to slow down at the top of the road, and stops.
The explosion comes suddenly, rocking the world around it. The bar is devastated by the burning blast of dust and flame from underneath, as the formidable blaze of fire destroys the solitary building, the bright light reflected in the bonnet of the black sedan.
Once the chaos subsides, the car returns, a blue light flashing on its top as it approaches the flaming wreckage. The sedan pulls up beside the fractured debris, and two men exit, silently.
Page: