The Mexican Connection

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Adriana ran harder than she ever had before. While her peripheral vision took note of the other cars and obstacles in the parking lot, her eyes never left her target: three men in windbreakers and ski masks ushering a fourth person toward a white, windowless van. They all carried Heckler & Koch submachine guns. The hostage’s head was covered with a pillowcase. She didn’t need to see the face to know who it was, though. That knowledge forced her to twitch her leg muscles to maximum speed.

She’d drawn her pistol but didn’t have a clear shot. The group was moving fast, dragging the prisoner along with his hands bound behind his back. They were still fifty yards away, and only fifteen from their goal. As if reminding her of that, the driver’s side door slid open, and another masked man popped his head out, ready to receive the cargo.

Adriana rounded the last car in the row and tilted her body forward to increase her velocity. Forty yards and closing. They were still ten from the van. It was going to be close, but she couldn’t ignore the reality. She wasn’t going to make it.

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