Finding Inspiration

Two men in black suits leaped out of the car the moment it screeched to a halt.

“They left the vehicle under the bridge,” the man emerging from the passenger side called out. Both of them sported fearsome-looking assault rifles slung across their torsos.

The passenger hesitated as the driver disappeared from sight on the other side of the road. “Should we—”

“Leave it!” I heard the driver answer. “I saw them run into the woods. We sweep and clear.”

I waited ten full breaths after they were both out of sight before I dared emerge from my hiding place. I crept up the embankment toward where the car sat on the road, my heart trying to hammer its way through my sternum. Thunderous gunshots split the silence, and my heart stuttered. Come on, I told myself. They’re not looking your direction. Get in the car and go.
I peeked over the edge of the road. No sign of the men in black suits. The concussion of three more gunshots made me blink, but they came from deeper into the woods on the far side of the road, out of sight. They’d taken the bait.

I darted across the empty blacktop, nearly bent over double. I felt as exposed as Prometheus tied to a rock, but no lead bird zipped through the air to eat my liver.

I reached the passenger side door and pulled on the handle. Locked. No keys in the ignition, either.

But on the dashboard rested an open three-ring binder.

I ducked at the sound of a three-round burst rending the air, even further away. I still had time. I ran back down to the riverbed, grabbed a fist-sized rock, and returned to the car window. One decisive strike later, I had the notebook in my hands, the last page telling me exactly how I would get out of here.