Alexander strode purposefully down the dark New York street, his briefcase tucked tightly under his arm. His tie flapped over his
shoulder in the late-night breeze. It had been a long day at the office, and the last train had long since left the station. He quickened his
pace, nervous alone in the shadows.
It happened quickly. The masked man appeared suddenly, materializing as if from thin air. Alexander saw the flash of silver whip upwards, felt the cold, unforgiving steel of the gun barrel press against his left temple. The shadow man, voice muffled by the thick stocking mask, demanded his wallet. Fearing for his life, Alexander quickly complied. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw his addailant rifle through its contents, pocket the cash and toss the rest aside. Gulping at the growing lump in his throat, Alexander inquired of the man, "Can I go now, sir?" This enraged the man, who struck him a swift blow with the butt of the gun. As the attacker succumbed to the bloodlust, a sinking feeling pressed on Alexander's consiousness. He knew he would die, tonight, soon.
As the stranger's blows rained down on him in a brutal and ceaseless barrage, Alexander clawed desperately inside his suit pocket for his cellular phone. He frantically pushed buttons, not knowing whose number he dialed. It rang, and with his dying breath he pleaded for help to the unknown person on the other end of the line. As he felt his life slipping from him, the last thing he heard was the faint voice from his phone. "At the tone, Eastern Standard Time will be 12:41 AM."
|
