Written by Carter Pierce
Henry Foster was in no way related to the goings on concerning Ivan Molchalin and Jack Raummi. He was just another guy, somewhere in the world, minding his own business. He was the CEO of a small, local bank in Missouri.
And until the plane crash, he’d been having a great day. He was hosting a business conference scheduled for the next afternoon. Other smalltime bankers were coming from various states: Josh Rollon from Georgia, Hank Cecil from Texas, Jack Raummi from Wyoming, and Liz Garfield from North Carolina.
They were thinking about joining forces in a business venture. A quite promising venture at that. But the plane crash had ruined everything in a matter of minutes.
Jack Raummi’s flight, out of the air. An acquaintance dead. An amazing business venture down the drain.
No survivors, the news reporter had said. They only had helicopter footage but were sending in a ground squad and a rescue team. They didn’t have much information.
Henry kept a close eye on the television, just in case. But for several hours, it hadn’t been any use. No more updates. No new information.
It was getting late.
A motorcycle rumbled down the street outside his house.
He barely looked up.
In the little town of Rocky Comfort, people minded their own business.
The motorcycle rumbled away. Then it came back. Somebody was joyriding.
Not him. He wasn’t joy-anything-ing today.
Then it stopped. Right in his driveway. He looked up.
There was a knock at his door. A voice shouting, “Hey! Anybody home? We need help!”
He went to the door and opened it, staring across the threshold at two mud-besmeared, scratched, scraped, bloody guys in suits that had once been worth looking at.
“What’s goin’ on? Who are you guys?”
Copyright by Carter Pierce 2022 All Rights Reserved