In the slums of a nameless city, December 23rd, 2015.
Your mother, on the strength of her two jobs, had scraped together enough money to afford a taxicab to deliver you to a bus station. From there you were to embark on a journey to Frederick, Maryland to visit your dying grandmother.
The taxi fetched you in the early hours of the morning, though your journey was soon interrupted. Twenty minutes into your excursion, miles from home, in a particularly unkempt stretch of city, the vehicle broke down. It’s headlights dimmed and then extinguished as it lurched to a fatal stop against a poorly lit curb. Cursing, the driver stepped out into the unfriendly, winter weather, opening the hood in hopes of discovering a miraculous solution.
On the opposite site of the road, just ahead, a dark van came to a wild and sliding stop. Two men dragged a third from within and pushed him to his knees. A single gunshot sounded and the kneeling man slumped to the cold street, his blood coloring the dirty snow.
The driver of the cab unwisely called out - an ill advised reaction of fear to what had just transpired.
Further shots echoed dully against the dirty brick buildings, one of them striking the driver in the eye and another in the throat.
It was dark in the taxi. The gunman couldn’t see you, though perhaps he heard a sound. He walked toward the taxi, his gun held easily in his left hand as he squinted to see any other witnesses of the execution. His expensive suit was clean and black beneath a long, and equally black, coat.
One of you opened the curb-side door of the taxi.
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