The moon was out, piercing through the clouds with the stars shining brightly in the night sky. The night was serene, disturbed only by the distant chirping of crickets and the occasional rustle of nocturnal animals. The city lay asleep, wrapped in a peaceful quietude; not a soul was out, intoxicated or causing a ruckus. It was a night of rare tranquility, yet unfortunately for one man, it was about to be shattered.
"Shit! Shit! Shit! I have to get out of here before that bitch gets me. Who hired her? Who hates me that much to send her? Fuck them! Fuck her!" The man's voice echoed through the concrete maze of the parking garage as he sprinted frantically, searching for his car. The garage stretched over four floors, and he was currently on the third, having parked his car on the roof.
"Why did I park so far away?" He panted heavily, stopping in a stairwell, his breath loud in the silence that enveloped the night. Suddenly, the first-floor stairwell door creaked open. He clamped his hand over his mouth, trying to suppress his heavy breathing, straining to listen for any sign of movement below. He soon heard the unmistakable sound of heels clicking on concrete, accompanied by a faint humming. His face drained of color as he cautiously peered over the banister, spotting a woman below wearing a black sunhat and a flowing trench coat.
She halted and withdrew a pistol equipped with a silencer from beneath her coat. The man ascended the stairs stealthily, every footfall calculated to minimize noise. He was succeeding until his keys grazed against the metal banister. He froze, eyes glued downward, hoping against hope that she hadn't heard. Unfortunately, his luck ran dry as the woman looked up, her silver mask glinting in the dim light as she waved at him. Startled, he stumbled backward, scrambling up the stairs in a frantic rush.
"Faster! Faster! I HAVE TO MOVE FASTER!!" The panicked thoughts screamed through his mind. Reaching the rooftop, he surveyed only his car and a distant pick-up truck, prompting a groan of frustration. He dashed across the parking lot, his briefcase – containing crucial files on politicians and five million dollars – slipping from his grip. He couldn't afford to lose it; it was his ticket to a fresh start. Swiveling around, he lunged to retrieve it just as he heard the stairwell door open once more. Ignoring the noise, he fumbled with his keys at the car door, feeling her eyes boring into his back, silently judging his clumsy attempts.
With the door finally yielding, a tap on his shoulder caused him to freeze in terror. Glancing at the car window's reflection, he saw her – the woman. Though not tall, her presence loomed over him like a specter of death, a chilling reminder of his impending fate.
The man shut his eyes, drawing a deep breath before turning to face her.
"Hello Medusa, may I ask who hired you?" His voice quivered as he studied her. The trench coat concealed her form, failing to hide her curves. Instead of heels, she wore metal-lined boots, and her mask resembled intertwined snakes.
"That's not the question you should be asking," Medusa replied, her hazel eyes piercing through him. They held a peculiar beauty, yet devoid of life. Her gaze conveyed neither disdain nor superiority but a cold indifference. She cared little for his imminent demise, the identity of her employer, or his sordid past. She was merely executing a job, much like he had ruthlessly pursued profit at others' expense.
He sighed, shaking his head to dispel darker thoughts.
"You're right. I shouldn't seek answers I already know. You won't let me live, nor will you reveal who hired you. Can I at least choose how I die?" He spoke with strained politeness, the silence between them filled only by the night wind's whisper.
"Sure, as long as it happens here. Would you prefer a bullet to the head, being pushed off the roof, hanging with the rope I have, a quicker overdose, a slit throat, or perhaps a broken neck?" Her tone remained indifferent, listing options as if reciting a grocery list.
The man swallowed hard, torn between the gun and the roof's edge. Desiring a swift end, he opted for a bullet to the head. Kneeling, he placed the briefcase beside him.
"Could you shoot me from behind so I can watch this beautiful night sky as I die? And please, ensure those in the briefcase face consequences for their deeds. Their payment awaits inside." He fought to steady his voice, betraying an underlying tremor.
Medusa regarded him, observing his façade of courage masking trembling fear. She sighed before raising the gun to his head and pulling the trigger. A soft click, then a dull thud echoed as his body slumped. Jackson Harris, a cog in a corrupt corporate machine, lay lifeless. His intended whistleblowing on embezzlement from a loan shark company led to his demise, orchestrated by The Pit, contracted by the very board he sought to expose.
Medusa photographed Harris's body, ensuring the briefcase remained out of frame. Satisfied, she sent the image to her clients and handler. Collecting the briefcase and shell casing, she walked toward her waiting pick-up truck on the far side of the roof.
"Acknowledged. Number 7536951, await cleaners' arrival at your location on the roof," a robotic voice affirmed over the phone.
"Understood," Medusa replied curtly, ending the call. By the time it concluded, she stood at her truck's hood, placing the briefcase atop it. Opening it, she ignored the money, focusing on Harris's files. They detailed trustees' crimes, offering potent blackmail potential, valued at a minimum of 250 million, more with her contacts.
With her examination complete, she stowed the papers and briefcase. Shortly after, a white van arrived, its occupants scrutinizing the scene. One approached Medusa while the other readied supplies from their van.
"Medusa, a pleasure. You're a legend, the world's top assassin with a 98% success rate. Inspirational, I must say," the man began enthusiastically, hoping to engage her in business discussions.
Medusa's gaze shifted to his partner, who shook his head, signaling futility. Without a word, she entered her van, the man continuing his monologue about innovative sneakers purported to enhance speed and silence. Starting her truck, Medusa glanced back, halting his spiel.
"I'll recommend you to associates if you ensure thorough cleanup. Handle the body well; The Pit might endorse your product," she stated flatly.
"Absolutely, my lady. Consider it done. No trace of this man will remain," the man affirmed, eager to comply.
Medusa nodded, driving off, the man waving her farewell. Upon leaving the garage, she made a call.
"Medusa, is the plan proceeding?" Red's voice queried.
"Yes, ETA 15 minutes," Medusa replied, pulling over to retrieve a waterproof bag. She placed the briefcase inside, setting it beside her.
"Are you certain about this? There's no turning back," Red cautioned, her concern palpable.
"Yes, I'm weary of this life. I seek freedom, Red," Medusa asserted, exiting the truck to access her trunk.
"Very well. Ensure readiness, and I'll secure a new identity and plane ticket. I'll contact you later," Red concluded calmly. Medusa grunted, confirming her understanding, then hung up.
Opening her trunk, Medusa unwrapped a black tarp, revealing a figure within – a black woman, unconscious, hands bound in cuffs. Extracting a syringe from the console, Medusa injected its contents into the woman's arm. Once done, she removed the cuffs and began dressing her in a trench coat, sun hat, heels, and mask. Side by side, they mirrored each other's dark chocolate skin, hazel eyes, and luscious lips, though Medusa bore more scars. Grateful for her assistance in orchestrating her escape and having a massive casino debt, Medusa silently thanked her.
Ensuring the woman's flawless resemblance, Medusa retrieved a duffle bag from the backseat, containing a full-body swimsuit and flippers. Donning them, she settled into the front seat, the woman beneath her lap. Adjusting the seat for comfort, she checked her watch, five minutes remaining for her planned destination. Removing her watch, she fastened it to the woman's left arm, then started the truck, beginning her drive.
Two minutes later, she approached a bridge, slowing her pace. Shifting to the backseat, she grasped a long stick and rope, securing the steering wheel. Placing the stick atop the gas pedal, the truck accelerated, hurling Medusa back into the middle seat. Hastily fastening her seatbelt, she maintained the truck's straight path as it sped onto the bridge.
40 mph
50 mph
60 mph
70 mph
80 mph
90 mph
The truck gained speed, reaching 120 mph, until a bright light appeared on the right. Bracing for impact, Medusa anticipated the semi-truck collision. The force jolted her head against the window, disorienting her as the vehicle careened and finally struck solid ground.
Dazed, Medusa sensed water at her feet, realizing her predicament. Swiftly unbuckling her seatbelt, she disengaged the rope from the steering wheel, discarding both in the backseat. The water rose to her neck, prompting urgent action. Retrieving a glass breaker from her bag, she paused for breath, submerged save for her head, gasping for air.
"This is it. Once I leave this truck, I'll be free," she resolved, smashing the window, admitting more water. She swam out, bold in her escape.
As Medusa swam away from the sinking truck, she felt a surge of adrenaline coursing through her veins. Despite the darkness and the cold water enveloping her, she felt a strange sense of liberation. Breaking free from the confines of her previous life was both exhilarating and terrifying.
The water was icy, sending shivers down her spine as she fought against the current. She kicked her legs harder, pushing herself upwards toward the surface. With each stroke, she felt the weight of her past slipping away, replaced by the anticipation of a new beginning.
Finally, her head broke through the surface, and she gasped for air, her lungs burning from the exertion. She treaded water, blinking against the sting of salt in her eyes. The night air was cool against her skin, a stark contrast to the suffocating warmth of the sinking truck.
She glanced around, orienting herself in the darkness. She could see the outline of the bridge above her, illuminated by the faint glow of distant streetlights. With a surge of determination, she began swimming toward the shore, her muscles protesting with each stroke.
As she approached the riverbank, she spotted a small dock jutting out into the water. With one final burst of energy, she propelled herself forward, grabbing onto the wooden planks and hauling herself out of the water.
She collapsed onto the dock, panting heavily as she lay there, her heart racing with adrenaline. She closed her eyes, allowing herself a moment of respite before she forced herself to move again.
Slowly, she pushed herself into a sitting position, taking stock of her surroundings. The dock was deserted, surrounded by darkness and silence. She was alone, with nothing but the sound of her own breathing to keep her company.
With a grim determination, she rose to her feet, her muscles protesting with every movement. She stumbled forward, her legs unsteady beneath her as she made her way toward the shore.
As she reached the edge of the water, she glanced back at the sinking truck, a sense of finality settling over her. She knew that she could never go back to the life she had left behind. From now on, she would forge her own path, free from the constraints of her past.
With one last look at the river, she turned away, striding purposefully into the darkness. Ahead of her lay a new beginning, and she was determined to seize it with both hands.