They waved him through the road block. No one noticed the sweat on his hands where they gripped the steering wheel. No one checked the rusty trunk on the rusty flatbed truck. They were looking for a Prius, not a clapped out pick-up.
He drove for another five miles, then pulled into a layby. He unlocked the trunk. The kid was still asleep. Perhaps he had used too much of the drug. He wasn’t a pharmacist.
He dialled the number on the burner phone. She answered, distraught.
‘Two million, or you never see the kid again.’ He hung up and tossed the phone.
Written for Friday Fictioneers hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields (more details HERE). The idea is to write a short story of 100 words based on the photo prompt (above).