Page 15 of Cruel Hero

“Good,” I say, more to myself than to him. “Now, let’s get back to these projections. If we’re going to make this work, we need to be thorough.”

After work, the sun is still high in the sky, and a gentle breeze tugs at my hair, carrying the scent of falling leaves through the open window. I decide to take the scenic route home, enjoying the peaceful drive and the changing colors of the leaves.

As I turn onto Oak Street and approach the next intersection, a pair of headlights flare to life in my rearview mirror. My breath catches in my throat when I realize how close the car is—far too close for comfort.

I tap my brake pedal, hoping they’ll take the hint and back off. Instead, the car surges even closer, its front bumper now mere inches from my rear fender.

My palms grow sweaty on the steering wheel.

I consider pulling over, but something—instinct, maybe—tells me that would be a mistake. Instead, I press down on the accelerator, my little sedan whining in protest as I urge it faster.

The car behind matches my speed, staying glued to my bumper.

Suddenly, a shrill honk pierces the air, making me jump in my seat. The car’s horn blares again, longer this time, an angry, demanding sound.

Without warning, the car behind me swerves violently to the left. In a blur of motion, it cuts in front of me, tires screeching against the asphalt.

“Crap, crap, crap.” I slam my foot on the brake pedal with all my might. The car lurches forward, the seat belt digging into my chest as I’m thrown against it. My head slams against the steering wheel, my vision momentarily going dark.

The acrid smell of burning rubber fills the air as my tires fight for traction. Time seems to slow, each second stretching into an eternity as I watch the gap between our cars rapidly shrink. My mind races, calculating distances, speeds, and probabilities—all useless in the face of impending disaster.

Just when I’m certain a collision is inevitable, my car shudders to a halt, mere inches from the other vehicle’s rear bumper. The sudden silence is deafening, broken only by my ragged breathing and the tick-tick-tick of cooling metal.

Before I can even process what just happened, movement catches my eye. Two men emerge from the car in front, their motions fluid and purposeful. Straight away, I notice the glint of metal in their hands. Guns. My blood runs cold.

This can’t be happening again, I think, frozen in place as they approach. Their faces are hard, expressionless, eyes locked on me with predatory focus. I want to run, to scream, to do something, but fear has me paralyzed.

As they draw nearer, I can see the icy determination in their eyes, the set of their jaws. These aren’t random thugs—there’s a purpose behind their actions, a dangerous intent that terrifies me more than any petty criminal ever could.

My mind scrambles for options, for some way out of this nightmare. But as the men reach my car, their hands moving towards the door handles, I realize with sickening clarity that I’m completely, utterly trapped.

The taller man yanks open my door, his gun now clearly visible.

I manage to remain calm and sit up straight, pretending that I have everything under control. After all, it’s not my first rodeo. “Hello, is there something I can assist you with?”

“Miss Carter,” the second man leans in, his face twisted with impatience. “We gave you extra time because of your uncle’s passing, but you’re not taking us seriously. Our patience is running out.”

My mind races, trying to piece together what they could possibly want. I force my voice to stay steady, though my heart is about to burst through my chest. “I’m sorry for my tardiness.” I clear my throat. “I’ve been working through the backlog of tasks left by my uncle. His sudden death was a shock, and I haven’t had time to sort through everything yet. Can you tell me what my uncle promised you? I will do whatever I can to fulfill his obligations.”

The men exchange a look.

The first man’s eyes narrow, his jaw clenching as he spits out, “Five shipments. Two thousand units each. Your uncle was supposed to deliver. Ring any bells now, sweetheart?”

Ten thousand units of what?

“Can you clarify what the product is?”

“Don’t play dumb,” the first man warns as he grabs my chin, forcing me to meet his intense gaze. “Do not make us come back here. I’m sure that wouldn’t be pleasant for either of us.”

He loosens his grip and steps back, wearing a self-satisfied grin.

“We’ll be in touch,” he says before joining the other man, who gives me a final threatening look.

As the men retreat to their car, I grip the steering wheel, knuckles white, and try to steady my breathing. The enormity of what just happened crashes over me like a tidal wave.

Ten thousand units. End of the week. Or else.

Who are these men? What is this product they’re after? And why are they so desperate for it to be delivered quickly?

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