A stranger ripped open Jenna’s passenger door, pointed an automatic at her and ordered, “Stay still.” His other hand held a bulging cloth bag. A second man with a bag of his own slid through the rear door. The gunman threw himself into the front. “Now go. Go!”
     The sequence took seconds. When Jenna understood what was happening, instinct was already in control, the accelerator to the floor, her car racing.
    “Take Battery,” the gunman said. Battery Street followed the lake out of town.
     The speed-limit was twenty-five throughout the city, but, aware of the gun, Jenna kept the Kia at fifty, weaving through traffic, breezing through traffic-lights. Angry, frightened drivers leaned on horns, but her passengers were impressed.
     “You handle a car real good. You always drive like this?” the gunman asked.
     Heart thumping, her eyes strayed to the gun still on her. “Not always.”
    The rear passenger laughed. “Maybe she’s a racer, Ronny—like that Danica chick.”
     “She’s retired,” Jenna said without thinking.
     “Well, we aren’t,” Ronny answered. “Not for a while, so slow down—and no more running lights.”
      “Lucky as hell,” the backseat rider said.
     Jenna checked her mirrors. They were on the highway linking the city with several suburbs. Cops often set speed-traps along here, but not today. Maybe it was luck—but what kind?
     “What’s your name?” Ronny asked.
     She hesitated, decided it didn’t matter. “Jenna.”
     “Nice,” the rear passenger said. “Pretty. Got a boyfriend?”
     “Cut that, Nick,” Ronny growled.
     “No boyfriend,” Jenna answered.
     “See? She don’t mind,” Nick crowed. “Reason I ask—”
     Ronny twisted, shooting Nick a warning look.
     “Okay, okay,” Nick relented. “Forget it. But still—man, the way you drive!”
    “Yeah,” Ronny agreed. “We could use a driver good as you. Josh deserves prison, losing his guts and taking off.” He sighed disgustedly. “Lucky we spotted you at the curb, Jenna. Were you headin’ to work or what?”
     She shook her head. “I don’t have a job.”
     Nick grinned. “Unemployed, huh? Maybe it’s fate.”
   Miles from the city now, the road wound through trees, past scattered houses. Jenna’s adrenaline had faded, leaving only fear. Ronny’s gun had a presence of its own.
     Finally, Ronny said, “Here, on the left.”
   The road was dirt, nearly hidden by brush. Jenna turned off, wincing as branches scraped the Kia. The track ended in a clearing with tiny, ruined cabins and a half-tumbled sign reading “Motel.”
     The car stopped. Nick hopped out, hefting his bag.
    “Listen.” Ronny leaned in, twisted the key from the ignition. “I meant it about a driver.” He looked towards where Nick seemed to struggle with the nearest cabin’s door.
    “I’m sorry we got you into this, Jenna, but we aren’t bad guys,” he said. His tone was friendly, but he still held the gun.  “And we make nice money. More than any job you’ll find. Think about it, okay?” He pocketed the keyring. “Gimme your phone, too.”
     Jenna dug the cellphone from her purse and handed it over, noting several missed calls on the screen. Losing it sucked, but Ronny was satisfied and took the gun off her for the first time since forcing his way into the Kia. He climbed from the car, joining Nick in wrestling the stuck cabin door.
   Jenna’s gaze drifted from the men to Ronny’s bag, forgotten in the passenger foot-well. Luck again?
     Remembering the pistol’s black eye and the reason for today, she sighed in relief, extracted the emergency key from her wallet, and started the engine. Backing down the road as quickly as she dared, she left the heisters in a cloud of dust and confusion.

     “Where’ve you been?” Jenna’s husband, Scott, demanded hours later. “You left me hanging back there!
     “Shit,” he spat, not waiting for a reply. “Doesn’t matter, anyway. I was in line, wearing the wig and fake nose, the note about the bomb all ready, and these gun-waving yahoos burst into the bank and cleaned the place out. I couldn’t believe it.
     “What’s that bag, by the way?”
     The fear distant now, Jenna could grin as she told him, “Luck.”
    Good, bad, or something else entirely—it all depended on how you looked at it.

About the author:
​Brandon Barrows is the author of several crime and mystery novels. His most recent is And Of Course, There Was the Girl from Full Speed Publishing. He has also published over one hundred short stories and is a three-time Mustang Award finalist and a two-time Derringer Award nominee. Find more at http://www.brandonbarrowscomics.com and on Twitter @BrandonBarrows

Scene: The exterior of Detroit City Hall. Members of the media are gathered. Detective Richard Dryer approaches a podium just outside the front entrance.

Dryer: “Good afternoon. I wanted to issue an update regarding the kidnapping of Mavis Jacobson, the twenty year old daughter of Michigan real estate developer Wilford Jacobson. As you know, Ms. Jacobson was abducted from the family estate yesterday morning. Earlier today, Mr. Jacobson and his wife received a ransom note demanding five million dollars in exchange for the return of his daughter.”

(Cameras flash.)

Dryer: “The experts in the crime lab examined the note and have determined its legitimacy. If the kidnappers are listening, the Jacobsons have agreed to your terms. They will pay the requested amount and are begging you not to hurt their daughter. They ask that once the money has been transferred to the off-shore account you indicated in the note, you return Mavis, safe, sound, and unharmed… I will now take your questions.” 

Reporter 1: “Detective, how did the Jacobsons receive the ransom note?”

Dryer: “It came through standard US Mail.”

Reporter 1: “Can you trace where the letter was mailed from?”

Dryer: “The crime lab is working on that as we speak, and investigators are coordinating with officials from the Postal Service, but as of now, we can’t pinpoint an exact location.”

Reporter 2: “Detective, can you share any details of the note itself?”

Dryer: “Yes, I can. The note was brief, to the point, handwritten, in pencil, possibly a number two graphite pencil, on a standard eight and a half by eleven, twenty pound, white piece of paper.”

Reporter 2: “Thank you, sir, but I meant the actual contents of the letter.”

Dryer: “I see. Well, after I gave the note a cursory glance, I could tell immediately the kidnappers had very little regard for their readers, and their writing skills were substandard at best.”

Reporter 1: “Would you mind elaborating on that, Detective?”

Dryer: (Pulls a copy of the note from his jacket pocket.) “Yes. This is the opening sentence. ‘We have been planning to do this for years.’”

(Groans from the crowd.)

Dryer: “‘Have been planning.’ If they had taken their audience into consideration, they could’ve worded it, ‘We’ve planned to do this for years,’ or something along those lines, but they did not. Their disregard for basic grammar is borderline sociopathic.” 

Reporter 3: “Sir, you stated the note was handwritten. Can you give us any details on that?”

Dryer: “Let me be frank. In my twenty-seven years on the force, this is the worst penmanship I’ve ever seen. It’s illegible, almost indecipherable. Chicken scratch doesn’t begin to describe it. It looks as if it could’ve been scrawled on the walls of a sanitarium in human excrement.”

Reporter 3: “Sir, don’t you think that’s a little overdramatic?”

Dryer: “I do, and I certainly hope the writer of this story remembers to take it out before he submits it for publication.”

Reporter 2: “Sir, getting back to the contents of the note, sources have mentioned an excessive amount of exclamation points. Can you comment on that?”

Dryer: “Handwriting experts have concluded the kidnappers utilized at least four, maybe five, exclamation points in their one page note.”

(Gasps.)

Reporter 2: “Maybe five, sir?”

Dryer: “The fifth could’ve been a colon or semicolon. It’s still under examination, but the boys in the lab are working around the clock to figure it out.”

Reporter 1: “There’s been a rumor concerning a quotation. Can you give us insight on that?”

Dryer: “I’d hoped that wouldn’t come up.” (Sighs.) “At the bottom of the page, the kidnappers wrote, ‘You miss one hundred percent of the shots you don’t take,’ and attributed it to Michael Jordan. Analysts notified us late last night the quote actually belongs to none other than Wayne Gretzky.” 

(Gasps. One reporter faints. Another screams.)

Dryer: “It’s a shame when innocent bystanders get caught up in something like this. On behalf of the Detroit Police Department, I would like to apologize to the families of Mr. Jordan and Mr. Gretzky. God willing, we can move past this and soon put the wreckage behind us.”

Reporter 2: “Detective Dryer, is there anything else you can share regarding the ransom?”

Dryer: “I would like to, but unfortunately, we’re rapidly approaching the word limit of this story, and I can’t necessarily go into details at this time.”

Reporter 3: “And there’s no way around that, sir?”

Dryer: “No. This publication only allows flash fiction stories up to 1,000 words, and there’s nothing I can do. I don’t have to tell you the headaches and setbacks a cop has to face when red tape gets in the way of an investigation. Maybe the writer of this piece could’ve utilized less adjectives, chosen his words a bit more carefully, but there’s nothing to be done about it now. It is—as they say, whoever they are—what it is.”

Reporter 3: “Don’t you mean, ‘Whomever they are?’”

Dryer: “Go fuck yourself.”

Reporter 1: “Sir, do you have any clue how this will end?”

Dryer: “I would assume with the words ‘The End’, but as far as the kidnapping and ransom goes, I have no clue. It’s in God’s hands now, and all we can do is sit back, hope for the best, and pray Mavis gets home safe. But if she doesn’t, it’s really no big deal. This is fiction and none of this shit is really happening anyway.”

Reporter 2: “Detective—”

Dryer: “I’m sorry, everyone, but we’re out of time. Thank you for your attention. Have a good day.”

THE END 

Dryer: “See? Told you.”

THE END, FOR REAL THIS TIME

​About the author:

Mike McHone's fiction has appeared in Ellery Queen, Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine, Dark Yonder, Mystery Tribune, Rock and a Hard Place, the Anthony Award-nominated anthology Under the Thumb: Stories of Police Oppression, Edited by SA Cosby, and elsewhere. A former journalist, his articles, op-eds, and humor pieces have appeared in the Detroit News, the AV Club, Playboy, and numerous other outlets. He is the 2020 recipient of the Mystery Writers of America’s Hugh Holton Award and has placed twice on Ellery Queen’s Annual Readers List. He lives in Detroit.