It was time. You had been blindfolded, your hands zip-tied behind your back, and pulled from your little cell of a room. You were dizzy, unsteady on your feet; you'd refused to eat the last three days in protest, drinking only water. And the Coke you'd convinced one of your captors to bring; he was a sweet boy named Felix, and you could tell he felt bad for you. So you tried to play on his emotions, flirting with him, acting scared and sorry. But that only got you so far. It didn't get you free. You swallowed down the lump in your throat as you were shuffled out into the cold January night, still smelling smoke on the wind.
Your Uncle had explained that you were being moved to the Black Roses' headquarters in Ansan, across the river and into quite literally a stronghold. With the forces of your uncle's Hoodlums and the Roses combined, there'd be no way for the Bangtan Boys to fight their way in. You fought down the panic that was threatening to consume you. Breathe. Just breathe. You were gripped under your arms and lifted up into the back of a large car -- SUV? -- and belted snugly in the middle seat.
You felt the car lurch as men filled it, felt muscled shoulders pressing you between them. You were sandwiched in, trapped. Still. You heard multiple sets of doors slam closed, and you tipped your head to the side, filtering out your captor's low conversation to count. Three...Three cars, including mine. If I can remember every turn we take, I can remember the way back if I can ever escape.
You swallowed as the motor purred and the convoy of cars moved off. No way out, was your final thought as you pulled onto the city streets.
▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀
A '67 Chevrolet Impala prowled the side streets of Osan, tracking a trio of black SUV's driving down the main thoroughfare. She was a gorgeous car, red with white racing stripes, restored with tender love and care, and she purred as she stalked through the narrow alleys. Four cars were out there in the night, her sisters, all modified to be street-rods. Engines changed out and upgraded, turned and with their cylinders bored. Power trains and axles souped up for greater performance. A '69 Mustang, a '68 Chevelle, '72 Barracuda and a brand-new Dodge Charger -- black, of course, with a push bumper like you'd see on cop cars.
The Impala cruised slowly, tracking the convoy as it made its way west, towards the river and Ansan beyond the bridge. The man driving grinned a boxy smile as he put pressure on the gas pedal, the Impala's motor purring as she jumped forward to outpace the SUV's. He glanced into each of their interiors, and found the silhouette he was looking for in the middle car.
We made it in time.
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
