The battered and bruised, gun-metal, Chevrolet Malibu came to a sudden halt. It was half past 2 in the morning and the only sound present was the hoarse grunting of the half-working engine, which seemed to be one of a different car. It pulled up just outside the only house in the area, which was a derelict valley, full of tall trees, that seemed to have been neglected for decades on end. The property was so poorly maintained that it was literally a wooden frame, with a set of metal bunks, and a couple o’ mattresses leaning against the wall in the only room. That was it, that was the ‘house’. In the middle of nowhere.
A tall man with long, greying hair, reluctantly stepped outside the vehicle, pulling the key out before him. He seemed to be in his mid-forties and had a distinct look about him. He had an, obviously dyed, pitch-black goatee, faded light blue jeans along with a khaki coloured sleeveless jacket. He slowly limped over to the back of the car and took off his thick-framed broken glasses, which were taped together heavily, and placed them into his jacket’s chest pocket. As he looked down at the trunk of the car, he lit up a what could only be described as a king size cigar while slowly pressing his weight onto the Boot with both his arms, pushing the entire rear of the car, down.
It was then, when a second man emerged from the passenger seat, stretching as if he had just woken up. He looked a lot healthier in the face than the first man, with his overly clean-shaven face and his noticeably short, well-maintained, ginger hair. “Eh Drew, We lose ’em?” he said, pulling up his loosely fitted navy jeans, looking around, anxiously.
“Well they’re not here are they? What the hell d’you think, Arthur?” said Drew, easing off the rear of the car, raising an eyebrow at the shorter gentleman, almost looking down on him. “How many times have i told you, it’s ‘A’, man!” Snapped Arthur. Both men let out a prolonged sigh in unison, which seemed as though it had been rehearsed.
Drew was an intimidating man, almost like a father-figure, but one that would beat the hell out of you if you made an out-of-place move. He had a constant serious look on his face, with a noticeable scar on his upper left cheek. You could tell, he wasn’t one to hold back, or play around. Arthur, on the other hand, looked more like he was there for the ride and to offer moral support rather than physical, but he also had the most serious look on face, an expression which would fit that, of a dictator, power-hungry, and resilient.
After several attempts of tugging on the broken handle of the boot, Drew finally thrust it open, to reveal a very weak man, no older than thirty, whose mouth and hands had been taped securely. It looked like he had been there through a very long journey and had lost all hope and energy to attempt to get away. It showed through his dried up tear stains on his face and white rag of a sweater. Drew pulled out a clean-as-a-whistle Desert Eagle handgun from the inside of his jacket and held it up to the man, while dragging him out of the car. “Jason, isn’t it?” Drew asked, daringly with the gun pointing to the weak man’s temple, at point-blank range. The captured man, Jason let out a quiet whimper, nodding his head while shaking vigorously, staring into the eyes of death, itself.
End of Chapter 1
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