Terry left work and used her app to hail an Uber ride. She watched the Mercedes SUV slowly approach, thinking “pretty swanky.” She got in and gave the driver an address two blocks from her home. The driver was dressed appropriately for someone piloting a Mercedes. He was somewhere between 40 and 50, dressed in a traditional style black suit, his crimson tie had been loosened. As they looked at each other, she noticed that he was neat and intelligent-looking. They drove in near silence, and it gave Terry the opportunity to contemplate her situation. How much longer could she accommodate the danger and harassment? She couldn’t wait for it to be over.
She was thinking how nice it would be to get home, pour a glass of wine, and soak in a hot bathtub. She looked up in time to realize that she had passed her exit. She called out to the driver whose name plate somewhat ominously read J. Smith. He either couldn’t hear her or was ignoring her. She persisted. The driver, finally hearing her, said, “not to worry, Miss, Waze said there was either construction or an accident near your drop off point. I’m going around.”
Terry sat back. After a few minutes, she checked Waze. She saw no traffic on the screen. Now she was pissed. She was tired of being afraid.
Terry unclasped her seat belt and leaned forward. “What’s going on here?”
The driver put on his turn signal and pulled over to the side of the road. He turned around and Terry saw the gun in his hand pointed at her. She gasped. The driver said, “Give me your hand.” Terry withdrew her hand as though it might shield her. “I said “Give me your hand!”
He grabbed Terry’s hand, pulled her forward, and held her hand. Terry’s eyes widened like the proverbial deer in the headlights. He held her and injected her hand. She saw a big ruby ring on his finger and felt a kind of crazed vibe coming from him. He then counted, “Five. Four. Three. Two. One.” The last thing Terry heard was “Three.”