40-Second Action Movie

Pang. A bullet pierced the Trans Am’s quarter-panel. “Jesus, they’re shooting at us,” Brian said, a giddy lilt overturning his empty pie plate of a voice. He wrenched the steering wheel, pale knuckles lined up like piano hammers, as the car broke across lanes and back. Derek, eagle-alert in the passenger seat, turned back to look. He squinted through the fog lamps of a heavy jeep tracking the Pontiac’s every veer like a coal-car coupled to a runaway locomotive. “Think it’s the Albanians?” he said. Brian didn’t answer. The Northern Parkway’s twilight array streaked past like strands of molten glass. “Bitch better have been worth it,” Derek thought.