In Rust we Trust
Judd exploded through the front door, his boots pounding the cracked pavement as he darted toward the rusted relic parked in the shadows. The 1970 Ford F100, its paint peeling and the metal creased with years of neglect, stood there like a silent partner in his escape. He didn’t hesitate.
Sliding into the cracked leather seat, his muscles protesting from the tension, Judd slammed the door shut with a hiss of broken hinges. His eyes flicked to the rearview mirror, but he couldn’t afford the luxury of looking back now. Crowder’s men were still inside, and once they figured out what he had stolen, there would be no place left to run. Time was the enemy.
With a grim smile, he shoved the key into the ignition, his hand steady despite the adrenaline pumping through his veins.
His fingers trembled as he reached for the driver’s side visor, his breath coming in short, ragged bursts. With a stroke of luck, he hoped the owner had left the keys tucked away—just enough to buy him a few moments of freedom. The metal keys tumbled into his lap, almost mocking him, and he fumbled with them, his hand unsteady. Every second counted. He had to get away from Crowder and his bloodthirsty crew, holed up inside, oblivious to the file he'd just stolen. The weight of it was pressing on his chest like a stone.
His right shoulder screamed in pain, the aftermath of their brutal run-in in San Mateo still fresh, the wound deep. He shoved the key into the ignition, his heart pounding like a war drum, only to hear the disheartening click as the engine refused to start. "Come on, you old girl," he muttered, as if the words alone would stir the lifeblood of the 3.9-liter straight-six beneath the hood. The engine coughed, sputtered, and then—nothing.
Click. Click. Click.
Desperation clawed at him. He slammed his foot on the gas, twisting the key again. He couldn’t afford failure. This was it—escape or capture. He heard it then. The smooth, throaty roar of the engine coming to life, and his chest lightened with a flicker of hope.
With one last glance at the shadowed doorway of the building, he slammed the gearshift into drive and peeled out onto West Seventh Street, tires squealing against the asphalt. His pulse raced as the Ford shot forward, the sound of the engine a chorus of defiance.
But then—he saw him. Crowder, his face twisted in fury, stepping out into the harsh sunlight. His eyes burned with the promise of retribution. Judd didn’t hesitate. He could see the dark shape of a Glock rising in Crowder’s hand, the barrel aiming straight at him.
Bang!
The bullet tore through the air, a deadly promise. Judd’s foot hit the gas again, pushing the car faster, the world blurring at the edges. The file was in his hand, but his life was the real prize now. The race was on.
