You casually saunter over to where her MP3 is parked, avoiding obvious light sources while pretending to have a conversation on your cell phone.
After glancing around, you edge a bit closer until you’re almost touching the vehicle with your backside. You quickly unzip the roll bag, slip the envelope out, and zip it back up. Stuffing the envelope into the front of your riding jacket, you waste no time in helmeting up and starting your ignition. A quick glance behind you as you peel out of the parking lot reveals the woman, accompanied by the gas station clerk, shouting and gesturing at you.
Ha ha! This was like taking candy from a baby!
Unfortunately your sense of victory is short-lived. The telltale shine of a single headlight suddenly rips through the darkness on all sides of you, and it’s obvious that the woman is in hot pursuit.
Kathy makes her bravest effort, but there’s no say she can compete with the MP3’s 400cc engine. As the mysterious woman bears down upon you, a hairpin turn takes you completely by surprise. You’re coasting downhill at WOT, panic fluttering in your throat, and then a guardrail seems to leap up out of nowhere.
Your front tire hits the rail and you tumble, stunned, over the embankment.
As you lie there, checking yourself to injuries, you hear the sound of boots hitting the roadway above. You look up, and the woman is staring fiercely down at you, training a very scary-looking semiautomatic weapon at your face.
“Before I end your miserable life, scooter trash, tell me who you work for.”
You really want to tell her that scootering is a respectable mode of transport, but maybe this is not the time. Instead, you shake your head.
“I-I just thought that you had some money in that envelope,” you lie, hoping that she might go easy on you.
Her dark brown hair cascades down over the black leather of her jacket as she kneels down to extend a hand for the envelope. “Give it to me, and you may escape with your life,” she hisses.
Carefully, you lift the crumpled envelope from your jacket and place it in her palm.
She smirks, rising again and brushing leaf mold from her knees. “You have spirit, perhaps, trying to get away from me on zat thing!” and she gestures deprecatingly at Kathy.
“Hey, you leave Kathy out of this!” you protest from your hunkered position.
“Ha-ha-ha!!! Her name is Kathy? You must love her.”
“Yes, I do. Surely you can appreciate love?”
She looks back down at you pityingly for a moment before raising the weapon and training it on Kathy. “Love hurts.”
The gun bucks as she fires three explosive rounds into Kathy’s overturned frame, and your scooter is instantly consumed by flames.
The last thing you see before screaming yourself into unconsciousness is an image of a black-clad woman riding away into the night.