Mickey thought he was just gathering material for his next viral story—until he realized he was the one being written into a trap.
When the Writer Gets Tracked
Mickey nursed his Shiner, the neon sign of Lucky’s Ice House buzzing like a trapped hornet. His gaze stayed glued to the man at the bar. Flashy. Silk tie, Rolex gleaming under the dim lights, and a restless energy that screamed a rap sheet. Mickey tapped his pocket, feeling the reassuring edge of his leather Moleskine. Subject Alpha, he’d call him. The protagonist of his next viral story.
When the guy stood up and walked out into the humid Texas night, Mickey left a five on the table and followed.
They walked three blocks past shuttered storefronts. Mickey stayed back, stepping into shadows, pulling his collar up—full-on Sam Spade. The man turned down a dead-end alley behind a derelict warehouse. Mickey paused at the corner, heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs. He peeked around the brickwork.
The flashy stranger was standing by a rusted dumpster. But he wasn’t alone. Another figure stepped out of the dark. Mickey fumbled for his notebook, his pen poised. This was pure gold.
Then the stranger spoke, his voice carrying clearly down the brick corridor. “He’s been behind me since Lucky’s. Just like last Tuesday.”
Mickey froze. Last Tuesday?
The second figure stepped into the moonlight. It was a woman, her trench coat sharp, a camera slung over her shoulder. She smiled. “Good. The editor wanted proof he was taking the bait. Did he bring the notebook?”
Mickey’s blood turned to ice. They weren’t his perps. He was their mark. A floorboard creaked behind him. A heavy hand dropped onto Mickey’s shoulder, locking him in place.
“End of the line, Mickey,” a voice growled.
What happens next? Does Mickey drop the notebook and run, or does he find out exactly what kind of story he’s accidentally been written into? Finish the story in the comments!