Quick by Steve Worland

in his left hand. ‘Got it!’ Black is directly behind him. Both wear gas masks.
     
    ‘Took your sweet time.’ Red grabs the shotgun from the cop’s hands and they shuffle behind the upturned wooden desk once gain. Directly behind them is a row of large windows, one already shattered from when Red cleared the mist. They quickly trade gas masks for their helmets.
     
    Anxious, Black turns to Red. ‘So, we’re really doing this?’
     
    ‘Unless you have a better idea.’
     
    Black’s silence is all the answer Red needs.
     
    ‘Just remember what you learned and it’ll be fine.’
     
    Yellow and Black nod hesitantly as Red unzips the duffel bag and plunges a hand inside. ‘We go in fifteen seconds.’
     
    ~ * ~
     
    Billy can see the smoke that was streaming from the Petronas Towers has now dissipated. He then loses sight of the buildings as the Hyundai enters a series of tight switchbacks that carve a steep route up a small mountain. The car turns a corner and a dirt bike puffing black exhaust trundles along the middle of the road, the rider an elderly gentleman wearing nothing but yellow shorts, his skin wrinkled and tanned from decades of exposure to the Kuala Lumpur sun.
     
    Claude sees the old guy, plays the steering wheel gently, dabs the brakes lightly, keeps the engine revs in the sweet spot and never loses momentum as they sweep past. As much as Billy hates to admit it, the guy is driving the hatchback as fast as anyone could. He’s extremely quick.
     
    As the Hyundai crests the apex of the mountain and heads down the other side, the towers are visible again, and appear to be much closer than even moments before. Perhaps it’s just the fact that they are now higher but Billy feels like he can almost reach out and touch them.
     
    ‘Jesus!’ Billy watches three black dots fall from the top of the building.
     
    Flap flap flap. A parachute bursts open from each of them.
     
    Claude looks on, intrigued. ‘You think it’s them?
     
    ‘Three parachutes, three champions. Stop the car. If we’re in separate vehicles we can each follow one of them.’
     
    ‘What?’
     
    ‘Just stop the car.’
     
    The Frenchman hits the brakes and the vehicle skids to a halt, gravel crunching under its tyres. ‘Why am I doing this?’
     
    Billy’s eyes flick to the rear-view mirror. Approaching the Hyundai is the old guy on the dirt bike, the one they just passed. In one smooth movement the Australian pushes the door open, swings out of the vehicle and holds up a hand.
     
    The dirt bike slides to a halt a few metres in front of him. Billy flashes a wide smile then reaches into his pocket, extracts his wallet, flips it open and drags out a chunk of the walking around money he was given by Marcellus. ‘I want to buy your bike.’
     
    The old guy leans forward, visibly shocked by such a large wad of cash.
     
    Billy turns to check the whereabouts of the parachutes, sees they are dotted across the sky, one to the left, one in the centre and the third to the right. He looks back at the old man and holds up the money. ‘I’ll give you five hundred US dollars.’
     
    The old man points at Billy’s shirt and makes a drinky-drinky gesture with his hand. ‘Iron Rhino gibs you wings.’
     
    ‘That’s actually Red Bull’s slogan but, hey, they all taste the same to me.’
     
    The old man grins, then holds up his arms in a bodybuilder’s pose. ‘It make me feel strong.’
     
    ‘Well it make me feel like my heart’s about to explode from all the caffeine, but whatever floats your boat.’ Billy holds up the money again. ‘So, about the bike, do we have a deal?’
     
    The old fella flips out the bike’s kickstand, slides off the seat, walks over to Billy, pushes away the hand holding the money and pinches the fabric of his Iron Rhino shirt.
     
    Billy understands immediately and peels it off, passes it to the old fella, then leans down and barks into the Hyundai’s cabin: ‘I’ll go after that one.’