Accountable

I know that I'm not supposed to...but I am posting today because I just uploaded my flash fiction piece to the NPR Three-Minute Fiction contest - Round 4. The challenge in Round 4 was not to write about a picture (like in Round 3, see previous entry below) but to write an original piece of fiction with less than 600 words containing the words: Plant, Trick, Fly and Button, in any tense, usage or conjugation. Here's my attempt!!

Accountable

“Is this a trick? You can’t be serious!” I tried to chuckle but terror was growing in my stomach and sounded in my voice.

A man in a dark gray suit stepped between the goons looming on either side of me. I didn’t recognize his face or his voice as he said again, “Sir, you have to come with us.”

I planted my feet wide, crossing my arms. “I won’t be going anywhere with you,” I tried to sound firm, though it was quite clear that I wasn’t going to be given a choice.

The gray-suited man nodded and the goons’ hands were on me. I was forced roughly into the dull aluminum interior of the black van and shoved onto my knees. One of the thugs held my hands tightly behind my back. As we pulled away, I glimpsed my coffee mug standing ridiculously alone on the top of my white BMW.

The van flew out of the parking garage like an action film stunt, four wheels off the ground, heedless of traffic on all sides. I felt every excruciating bump hammer my kneecaps and reverberate up my skeleton. The pain only intensified the thoughts screaming in my head.

I’m not blindfolded. Shouldn’t I be blindfolded? As if this breach of kidnapping etiquette was somehow indicative of something.

Why is this happening to me? Why are they in such a hurry? Another hill, another mid-air near collision, another agonizing meeting with the ground.

Why would anyone want to abduct me? Aside from that stupid Beemer, I’m nobody. I don’t owe any money. I don’t have any money. I’m an accountant for Christ sake! What do they want from me?

“You’ve got the wrong guy.” I spoke softly.

“We’ll soon find out,” said the gray-suited man.

We passed into the darkness of another parking garage. The van stopped short and I crashed onto my face, the thug releasing my hands at the last second so I could fall but couldn’t catch myself. I lifted up from the cold metal floor feeling at my throbbing bloody nose.

“Bring him.” The gray-suited man commanded.

Again the goons seized me. I was dragged from the car, onto my aching legs and toward a waiting elevator. Blood dripped onto my shirt and coated my buttons.

There’s my favorite shirt ruined! As if it were my morning coffee staining my shirt rather than my own red blood. As if I were sitting in traffic, rather than being dragged toward an ominously bright, empty elevator by men three times my size.

The elevator whirred as it climbed, fast and smooth. The doors opened to reveal two more goons standing like gargoyles at either end of a hulking wooden desk. Behind it I saw the back of a wide leather armchair and a wall of windows.

“For your sake, Thricker, this better be the man.” The chair turned slowly. In it sat an elderly man gripping the chair with gnarled hands. He took me in with a determined but feeble glare. Then he closed his eyes as if falling asleep.

“Release him.” He said, eyes still closed. The hands fell from my arms.

He opened his eyes to look at me. “Get back in the elevator. Leave immediately. If you ever speak of this to anyone, you will be killed. If you look for me, you will be killed. Go.”

Don’t have to ask me twice.

I spun, jumped into the waiting elevator and hit G. As the elevator whirred to life, I heard a single gunshot.