A dense fog had rolled in from the river. Amstel Blake ran along 8th street, barefoot, his right hand wrapped tightly around the grips of a .40 caliber Taurus. Not far away, someone was frying bacon.
At the corner of 8th and Jefferson, a Toyota Corolla waited to turn left. Amstel trotted to the passenger’s side, tried the handle first, tapped on the window and shouted, “Open the door. Now.”
The driver, a woman in her mid twenties, didn’t scream for help. She didn’t floor the accelerator, and she didn’t go for her cell phone. She didn’t produce a weapon of her own and blast Amstel’s skull to smithereens. The driver, a petite woman with long blonde hair, froze.
Amstel felt a pulse in his teeth. “I swear to God, lady, I will kill you.”
The lock popped.
Amstel climbed in, aimed the gun at her head. “Drive. Make a U-turn, back toward the interstate. Speed limit.”
The woman missed second gear, finally grinded it home.
“What do you want? Why are you doing this?” Black rivers of mascara trickled down her freckled cheeks. The badge clipped to her scrub top said Sally, the last name blacked out with a strip of surgical tape.
“We’re going to save the world, Sally,” Amstel said. “Just you and me.”
* * *
C) Stop obsessing over the opening and write the damn book
D) Don't quit your day job, you friggin' hack