A Matter of Skill

By Luke Menzo

I punched the Mustang into gear, tires squealing down the unlit county highway.

The sudden acceleration pressed the man beside me back in his seat. He made no move to grab the door handle for support. Probably because I’d zip-tied his wrists behind his back.

“I thought your orders specified not to harm me.” The man’s voice was muffled by the burlap sack over his head.

“A couple G’s never hurt anybody,” I said through gritted teeth, checking my rear-view to make sure the cops were out of sight for good.

“Your benefactor might think otherwise.”

Bringing Jored in unharmed had seemed easy enough—until he’d spit out his gag and started talking.

“And don’t you think the zip-ties around my ankles are a little tight? I wore no-show socks today, and I think the skin’s chafing.”

With all the self-control I could muster, I tightened my hands around the steering wheel instead of his throat. “If my benefactor asks, I’ll explain the irritated skin is a side-effect of your abrasive personality.”

“By that logic, it’s a miracle your own skin isn’t rubbed raw.”

I snorted. “Good thing I’m not a logician.”

“Yet you’re equally bad at this job.”

The steering wheel’s leather stitching dug into my palms. I’d gotten into bounty-hunting for the thrill of it—not to be criticized by a pudgy, balding foreigner with an unidentifiable accent too thick to slip through a strainer. “If I’m so bad at this, explain why I keep getting hired.”

He chuckled. “Maybe it’s entertaining to watch you work.”

A green exit sign flashed by. Spinning the wheel sharply, I swerved onto the gravel as I took the exit. I mentally double-checked my drop-off instructions. A glance at the dash clock confirmed we’d be right on time.

For several glorious seconds, only the thrum of the Mustang’s powerful engine filled my ears.

“What I still don’t understand,” began Jored, shifting uncomfortably in his seat, “is how quickly you lost the law enforcement back there.”

I blew a strand of dark hair out of my eyes. “It’s called skill, Jored.”

“Ah, skill. Is that what you Americans value so much?”

“Skill and silence.” I shot him a pointed look that he couldn’t see through the sack. “I see you don’t have either of those.”

“Not anymore. Every last drop was squeezed out by zip-ties.”

Three more turns put us on a dirt road, where the only scenery was grassy pastures and the occasional barn. No homes. No unwanted observers.

After precisely 2.7 more miles rolled across my odometer, I tapped the brakes, pulled onto the shoulder, and parked.

“Have we arrived?”

“No. I just enjoy parking every now and then with a passenger in a burlap sack.”

“Ah, sarcasm. That must be what you Americans truly value.”

Balling my fists, I said, “Silence is still high on the list.”

“My culture values loosened zip-ties over sarcasm.”

“Quit complaining about the restraints—or I’ll give you something to complain about.”

“You could at least remove the sack.”

I got out and slammed my door without bothering to reply. Letting the cool air fill my lungs, I kept my eyes peeled and shoulders relaxed.

I’d dealt with mob bosses and business tycoons in my varied freelance work—men powerful enough to snuff out life and heartless enough to laugh while doing it. But none of them had rattled my composure so much as the mouthy foreigner in the passenger seat of my car.

Hopefully the money was worth it. Many unpleasant experiences could be compensated for with a pile of cash. I had yet to get blood on my hands that enough green paper couldn’t scrub off.

A dusty, 1992 Honda Civic rolled down the road toward us, headlights off. Thank goodness. My money was on time, and I didn’t have to listen to Jored’s snide remarks any longer. His speech was unnervingly bold for someone who’d been kidnapped.

The car parked, its aging engine giving a sigh of relief as the driver shut it off. A tall man unfolded himself from the driver’s seat and stretched as he stood.

But as I approached him, two more men stepped out of the passenger side. “I thought you said there’d be only one man accompanying you?”

“I did!”

The accented, muffled shout drew my attention back to my Mustang. Jored’s door kicked open, and his thick figure hopped out, hands and feet still zip-tied together.

Confusion delayed my reaction to the footfalls and clinking metal behind me. I turned—hands snatched my arms and handcuffs closed over my wrists. Struggling, I screamed, “What are you doing?”

The tall man gripped my elbows as he pulled me toward his vehicle. “You, Frederick Griffin, are under arrest for kidnapping and multiple counts of suspected murder.”

The two other men—who wore discreet police badges on their belts—freed Jored of his zip-ties and burlap sack. “Good work, Zaivar.”

“Thank you,” he said, rubbing his wrists as his accent faded. He winked at me, then peeled off his thick mustache and large overcoat. “I, too, value skill. But I don’t think your driving is why the police dropped the chase earlier.”

His coat had extra padding to make him appear thicker than he really was. I suddenly got the feeling the sizable bald portion of his head would grow back. I’d been duped by a rival bounty hunter.

The tall officer, hands still locked on my arms, asked Zaivar, “Did you successfully identify his last employer during the ride?”

Zaivar locked eyes with me.

He thought I would divulge that? Ha! Dominic Monroe was one tycoon I wouldn’t dare betray. “You may have caught me, but—”

“The man’s name is Dominic Monroe,” Zaivar interrupted.

Color fled my face. He couldn’t have possibly found that out from our conversation. It was impossible.

Or… maybe this bounty hunter had a right to critique my skill level, after all.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Luke Menzo has often been accused of wit, but spared the dungeon thus far thanks to insufficient evidence. He enjoys his precarious free time by climbing trees and exploring caves in the Ozarks, where he draws inspiration for fantastical worlds and brainstorms gripping stories. Passionate about living an adventurous life, he strives to write stories that inspire others to chase dreams and take initiative.