The “Hostage”

I was recently given this writing prompt by Jessi L. Roberts, and I thought that I would share what I came up with.  Of course, the setting is a little bit different.  It’s a bit more similar to one of our modern cities, as opposed to the sci-fi-ish feel that this one has.  Nonetheless, here it is!

May Writing Prompt

The “Hostage”

The man pushes me before him, a gun pressed to the side of my head.  My adrenal glands work overtime, and my heart is pounding.  But it isn’t the all-consuming pound of terror that is coursing through my veins, no.

It is the pound of exhilaration.

Quite honestly, I’m enjoying myself, and it’s all I can do to refrain from letting the burst of laughter out of my throat.  My shoulders are shaking with laughter, but I don’t try to stop that.  Let the fool think that I am trembling with the fear that my puny life will be taken from me.

That’s not to say that the thought that I might die hasn’t crossed my mind; it has multiple times, to be sure.  But that’s far from likely.  I’m his hostage.  I’m the valuable one, the one that he doesn’t dare to kill.  Because if he does, he’ll have nothing between him and the policemen that would be all-too-happy to send a bullet through his skull.

I stumble, tripping over my feet.  Or, that’s what the man thinks.  In reality, as I’m falling to the ground, I’m pulling the 9mm from the holster at his hip, and the hunting knife from his boot.  He doesn’t even feel what I’m doing, he’s too afraid that my fall will result in his death.  Which it will.  Just not in the way he’s expecting.

“Get up!” he growls at me, and I stumble to my feet, almost falling back to the ground.  That results in ample time for me to slip the knife underneath my belt, as well as for me to tuck the handgun into a pocket on the inside of my jacket.  A quick glance at the man’s face tells me that he caught none of this, and I have to fight to keep my lips from twitching into a grin.

The man grabs me by the arm and hauls me up to my feet, then shoves the pistol’s muzzle back to the side of my head, then “forces” me to keep moving.

I scope out the street in front of me.  He’ll be turning at this next corner on the left.

It will be his last mistake.

We round the corner, and not five paces after we’re out of sight, I grab his wrist and wrench the gun away from him.  Before he even knows what’s happening, I strike him across the temple, and he falls staggering against the brick wall.

A few moments later, blood trickles down from the slit in his neck where his own knife pierced him.

I press my lips together, my conscience berating me for what seems to be the thousandth time.  I don’t like this part of my job.  If only it could all be the chase.  If only I need never finish my work.

I shake my head, forcing these thoughts to the side.  For a moment, I’m tempted to defend myself to the part of me that despises my work, but I refuse to.  I am completely justified in what I have done and will continue to do.

If only Xavier could see it that way.

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