“Whatever you want, I’ll get it for you! Just, please. I have a family!”
A rattling sound from inside the Chevy diverted Smith’s attention briefly to his car. The headlights were like two eyes shooting white beams into the pitch blackness of the highway as the car idled behind the two men. Something moved inside the vehicle’s cabin, and Smith thought he saw Anya’s pale complexion whoosh from the backseat into the front passenger seat and disappear. Tim’s incessant whimpering redirected Smith’s attention to the man on the ground, pleading for his life.
“Calm down,” Smith began in a soothing voice and kneeled, still gripping the revolver.
Tim squeaked and shuffled backward a few feet.
“Close your eyes. It was all a bad dream.”
The car radio turned on, and the smooth jazz of Benny Goodma
