Richard Doetsch - Half-Past Dawn

As the SUV hit the bridge pavement, the rear wheels lost their traction, and the Tahoe went into a sudden fishtail. Jack held tight to the wheel as the vehicle skirted left to right and back again, pulling hard to bring it under control. Mia’s right hand shot up and gripped the passenger strap above the door. Their collective breath caught in their throats as the car spun headfirst toward the guardrail.

But Jack finally gained control. Slowing down to catch his breath, he had turned toward Mia with a that-was-close smile when the flashing red lights lit up his rearview mirror and the back of the car.

“Tell me you didn’t have more than two glasses,” Mia said as she caught her breath.

“God, that was close,” Jack said as he pulled over to the side of the two-lane overpass that spanned the rushing Byram River. “I’m perfectly fine, though I think I shaved five years off my life with that little maneuver.”

The flashing roof light slowly passed them. It was atop a black Chevy Suburban, and it came to a stop just in front of them.

Jack rolled down his window, the pouring rain instantly soaking his arm and the interior door of his car, stoking his mood. “This is bullshit.”

“Shhh, let’s keep it in check,” Mia said as she smiled and rubbed his leg. “Take the ticket like a man, and we’ll be home in ten minutes. Then you can continue playing with my new necklace.”

They both sat silently, staring straight ahead, the thump of the windshield wipers rhythmically droning as a man in a dark suit approached. Jack glanced at the blue necklace and Mia’s cleavage, motioning with his eyes.

Mia, feeling exposed, buttoned up her sweater.

Suddenly, to Jack’s shock, there was a gun in his face, the black steel barrel coming to rest inches from his left eye.

“Hands on the wheel,” the man in the black suit said quietly. His blond hair was plastered with rain to his head. He looked at Mia, “And you, hands on the dash.”

Mia slowly put her hands on the dashboard above the glove compartment and turned to her right to see a second man in black, skinny, with a sharp long nose, his gun aimed at her head.

As if on cue, both doors were ripped open, and Jack and Mia were violently pulled from the car into the pouring rain. The skinny man thrust Mia against the car.

“What the hell is going on?”

“Quiet,” the skinny man snapped, his red hair already soaked in the storm.

“You have no idea who you’re messing with,” Mia said through gritted teeth as the rain ran down her face. “You may want to open my purse and check my badge, because, I swear to God-”

The man brought the gun to rest inches from her eye, silencing her. He was painfully thin, his neck and jaw almost skeletal. With the rain running down his face, over his unblinking eyes, he looked like something out of a nightmare.

The blond man spun Jack around, kicking his legs out as he assumed the position of a perp. The man frisked him from stem to stern, pulling the blue box from Jack’s pocket. He opened it and spied the pearl choker. Without interest, he closed the box and threw it into the car. He grabbed Jack by the neck, punched him hard in the kidneys, and threw him to the rain-soaked pavement.

The skinny assailant spun Mia around, running his hands up and down her torso, her legs, frisking her through her soaked sweater and black gown, while a third man, linebacker-sized, in a black suit, popped the trunk of their Tahoe.

The team of three operated with military efficiency, as if every move was planned, as if they had a singular goal to accomplish on a hair-trigger timeline.

“Where is the case?” the skinny man demanded.

Mia just stared at him.

“Case seven-one-three-eight?” The thin man leaned in, his breath assaulting her senses.

Mia looked at Jack and began to mouth something-

“Got it,” the third man cried out as he hoisted a long black metal box from the rear of the Tahoe.

As the skinny man looked through the teeming rain at his partner, Mia drove her knee into the man’s crotch, following it up with a hard elbow to the nose. But while her FBI training was thoroughly ingrained in her mind, it didn’t prevent the powerful blow the man countered with and unleashed into her jaw, driving her 125-pound body into the car as he rammed his pistol into her forehead.

At the same time, Jack, who lay on the bridge, spun his leg left, sweeping out his assailant’s legs, sending him crashing to the ground, his head hitting the pavement, his gun skittering away. Jack dove on top of the man, drawing back his fist and unloading it into the man’s throat, stunning him. He continued to pound his knuckles into the man’s face but was suddenly grabbed around the neck and yanked backward. The third man was much larger, pushing 275. His fist crushed into the side of Jack’s head nearly knocking him out. For extra measure, the man didn’t stop, hitting Jack twice more, opening up a large gash on his brow and his cheek.

And then a gun exploded, the crack of the percussion echoing in the rainy distance. Jack collapsed, a bullet lodged just below his shoulder. He looked up to see the bloodied, raging face of the blond man he’d beaten, leering down on him in anger before he was tugged away by the linebacker.

The skinny man dragged Mia toward the black Suburban as she kicked and screamed, fighting with all of her will to break free and get to her wounded husband.

Jack struggled to focus in spite of the pain that coursed through his body, his heart aching as he could barely move, unable to stop the men who were taking Mia.

“Let her go!” Jack shouted through a bloodied mouth. “Take me, take me, please…” As his words faded, he was hoisted up and tossed into the passenger seat of his car.

The large man climbed into the driver’s seat, threw the car into neutral, and hit the gas, revving the engine to redline. With a last bit of strength, Jack tried to get out of the vehicle, but the man drove a punch into his bullet wound, sending crippling shards of pain through his body.

The man kept his foot on the gas pedal, the engine howled with pent-up energy, and he threw the Tahoe into drive.

The wheels screamed as they spun on the wet bridge, struggling to gain traction, smoking until they finally caught and launched the SUV into the rail of the bridge. The linebacker dove through the open driver’s-side door, hit the roadway, and rolled clear.

Inside the vehicle, Jack looked with half-mast eyes to see Mia break free from her captors and chase after the Tahoe. He then caught a sudden glimpse of the small blue box that lay on the seat next to him and, without a thought, picked it up, holding it tight, as if it was the last piece of Mia he would ever touch, and slid it into his pocket.

The car crashed through the rail, sailing out over the river like a bird taking flight, but gravity soon took hold, and the Tahoe began its arc toward the rushing waters, knifing into the raging river, an explosion of water hurled nearly bridge-high. The car bobbed, quickly caught in the flow, tossed around as it slowly sank. As it neared the river bend, its taillights finally disappeared, their red glow hovering below the surface before fading to nothingness.

• • •

Despite the driving rain and the churning waters, there was a silence over the valley, the white noise of the downpour obscuring and absorbing all other sounds, creating a quiet over the Byram River, as if in reverence. The downpour continued to rage, roughing up the waterway, the storm surge carrying the water high up on the banks.

And then, out of the black water, climbing up into the dark night, he clawed his way onto the shore. His shirt was torn, hanging from his body, and blood poured from his shoulder.