By Angus Wilson, aged 14
“If we shoot him they’ll back off, they’re cowards, and they don’t want more civilian deaths,” said Moses to Abraham. There was a suited banker kneeling on the once white floor of the bank vault. It was now stained red, with stainless-steel surfaces giving the room a crimson hue. “We’re surrounded, if we kill one and take another with us, we’ll make a clean getaway. I’m leaving with or without you.” The killing was inevitable, and Abraham didn’t want Moses dead. With SWAT approaching down the corridor, there was no way out. Abraham was sweating, the clear fluid making audible splashes in the silent room. The trigger was pulled, the life was lost. The panic-filled eyes closed, and it was over.
Three months later
The grey room was empty. The empty man, resigned to his fate, was sitting, slumped over the desk. Abraham entered through the double-locked door and took a seat in front of Moses. The black man raised his head and piteous hope filled his lined features. “The Prophets” had disbanded last month; both went to court, one as the lawyer, the other, the prosecuted. Abraham still remembered the offer of diplomatic immunity, the promise of salvation, all they wanted was Moses. But he was still a friend. “Everything you’ve just told me is a complete and utter lie, now tell me the truth and we both might live.”
Two Hours later
“Move!” shouted Abraham to Moses. The court guards weren’t far behind, their shotgun slugs thudding into the ground on either side, forcing his heart into the same, terrifying beat. Moses whooped with joy at the prospect of escape, ignorant of Abraham’s own aims. They reached the fence and Moses turned to give Abraham a leg up and found an ugly pistol pressed to the bridge of his nose.