The Runner

N hitched the backpack up on his shoulder and hugged himself to keep warm as the thin tendrils of fog floated around him. He was standing on one of the top levels of a multi-level car park, highly exposed to the howling, icy winds that were common at this time of night.

A man approached from the lift and N’s eyes flicked around, scanning the surrounding area for threats. He found none and looked back at the man, eyeing the bulge in his jacket suspiciously. The man’s face was scarred and ragged and his build was stocky, yet not fat. N guessed he was a wrestler.

“I assume you’ve got the goods.” The man’s voice was cracked and raw.

“Naturally.” N gestured towards the backpack, “But the question is, do you have the money?”

“No.” A thin smile cam to the man’s lips as he pulled out a small handgun out of his jacket and opened fire, bullets sparking of the dirty, concrete walls.

N dived out of the way; landing behind a concrete pylon as he pulled out his silenced Akdal Ghost pistol and flicked off the safety catch. This was the part of the job N hated, when someone thought they could rip him off and he was forced to deal with them It happened on a regular basis and N was used to dealing with it, but he never enjoyed it.

The man stopped firing, presumably to reload, and N took his chance. He threw himself out from behind the pillar and fired twice. The man fell forwards as his legs were flung out from underneath him, blood leaking from the bullet wounds. N stood over him, waiting for the man to spring up, but he didn’t. But as N turned away he saw the man whisper something into his shirt cuff and before N had a chance to react; car doors sprung open all over the parking lot and men holding submachine guns jumped out. N quickly ducked behind the nearest car, a Daihatsu Cube, and tried to work out his current situation. There were maybe 70 men surrounding him and he only had 18 bullets left in his gun.

Seemed like a fair match.

N quickly rolled away from the car and started to sprint towards the side of the building, bullets sparking on the grimy cement behind him, and dropped down behind a concrete pillar. Then, suddenly, the steady stream of bullets stopped. N peeked around from his hiding place and realised why. They had all pulled back to make way for something. But before N could work out what, something started to appear from the lower levels.

“Is that a… THEY’VE GOT A TANK!” N’s brain yelled at him.

The tank was a monstrous block of grey metal mounted two long, thick tracks with a huge barrel wielded onto the front. As it slowly rolled up the ramp that led from the lower levels, its long barrel levelled itself at the pilar that N was standing behind and prepared to fire.

But N was already halfway across the parking lot, his legs a grey blur beneath him. As the tank fired, N jumped towards another pylon, watching the one he was previously behind explode outwards into a cloud of dust and rubble. The tank jolted backwards and the barrel started moving towards him again. N tried to sprint away again, but in vain. The men (N had now worked out that they were private soldiers), had their weapons at the ready and sent a barrage of burning lead in his direction, keeping him pinned down. As the tank readied itself to fire, N studied his situation.

He had a tank about to shoot at him, 70 men making sure he couldn’t break cover and he was stuck in a car park, behind a pylon, right next to the edge, 500 metres off the ground. And no one could survive a fall from that height.

Except maybe N.