With a Bang (Jack McClane Story)

Chapter 1

People think being a writer is easy money, but they don't actually realize how hard it is. To find that one zinger story that will set you for life. For example, J.K Rowling was a woman down on her luck and then one day, it just hit her like a ton of bricks while riding the train one day. That's what I wanted to happen to me. I wanted to be the next JK Rowling–have the next best-selling novel in the New York Times.

That is why I took my newly acquired writing degree, my life savings, and began to travel the world. If inspiration wasn't hitting me at home, then maybe I needed a change of scenery. At least that's what I thought. So far I've been to Australia, Japan, and South Korea. I considered making my way into North Korea thinking my zinger might be in the socialist state but thought better of it once I researched it a little more. I value my life a little too much to go into a country where the Human Rights violations are unparalleled.

I met new people on my travels and experienced their way of life–if I deemed it safe, I didn't say no. That is how I found myself being escorted into a high-end night club in Moscow, Russia. The woman to my left, who I met at a café this morning, invited me along after a brief conversation in broken (on my part) Russian. She was having a girl's night and decided I needed to meet her friends. Anja, Maria, Stazy, and Tasha are the girls I found myself in the company with and apparently they come here often because we were led inside and to a table right away.

We had a few drinks and began dancing. My feet were killing me in the heels Anja let me borrow since she said I wouldn't get in wearing my quilted combat boots–the only pair of shoes I brought with me on my travels. The black skinny jeans were okay though, and one of the other girls lent me a slinky blue shirt. After a while of being on my feet, I pushed my chestnut locks out of my face and told the girls, the best I could, that I was going to take a rest on one of the couches.

I took a seat on the arm of one of the white sofas, pushed my long chestnut hair over one shoulder, and pulled the sleek black heels off my feet and messaged the indents around my toes. Did I mention the heels were half a size too small? Anja wouldn't take no for an answer, though.

I looked up from massaging my feet when someone stopped off to the side of me and my breath caught in my throat. The man was good-looking, yes–probably one of the most handsome men I'd ever seen–but the way he stood, the hard look in his eyes, intimidated me to no end. He didn't even see me, though. He was looking straight ahead at a group of people lounging on another white sofa at the back of the bar.

"Anton." He said first and then spoke in perfect Russian. I couldn't tell what he said, but I could make out a name–Yuri Komarov–and the word 'hello' in his speech before he raised a gun.

I stopped breathing the moment I saw this man raise his gun, and I felt the fear rush right through me. I didn't know what was going on, but I knew that I could be in danger if I moved even a hair, so I didn't. My eyes just stayed locked on the handsome man with the gun, and I didn't even flinch when he pulled the trigger. People screamed and scrambled around me, but I stayed still.

I didn't move until the man was tackled to the floor and only then; it was to jump to my feet to get a better look at the man that was now chest to floor, hands being cuffed behind his back. He moved his head to the side for better breathing access and that's when his eyes locked on my hazel ones. Even though it was dark in the club, I could make out the colour in his eyes perfectly. They were blue. The bluest I'd ever seen.

Our eye contact broke when he was hauled to his feet and taken from the club. I followed him out with my eyes, almost studiously. There was something in his eyes that told me he wasn't evil. I slowly pivoted on my bare feet and looked at the dead man on the couch. So why did he shoot this man?