Screeching winch, stressing metal, revving truck motor, the smell of diesel, and that nasty electric smell from the worn winch motor. At the end of the control lever at the back of the tow truck was a burly biker dude and his equally scary partner, guiding the Range Rover up the ramp onto the back of the truck like a whale being landed on a factory boat. This, apparently, is what happens when you fuck with your uncle "Harry", a Russian criminal mastermind wannabe, who then decided to pay someone a lot of money to steal your car just to piss you off.
It took a few moments, but Tow Truck Guy Number One eventually noticed the diminutive Armin. He was standing in the middle of the parking lot about 30 feet away in front of the truck on the driver's side. Armin was nonchalant, a Diet Coke in one hand, the left in the pocket of his black jeans, looking unremarkable though handsome, with wavy dark hair, his Wayfarer's, a weathered black leather jacket and boots, a slim shady in the street. He stood casually posed to one side staring straight at One, drinking occasionally from his soda. One shook his head in disdain with a Fuck-You-Asshole grin at Armin's stare. Armin recognized One, and had no doubt the guy recognized him, and knew it was his car.
By now his Rover was up on the ramp, and Tow Truck Guy Number Two pressed a lever to lower it, having taken One's place at the controls, as One stepped up into the truck's cab giving Armin a solid Go-Ahead-Punk-Make-My-Day stare the whole time. The ramp lowered back into onto the truck bed and with a soft clunk locked down into place.
Armin looked at his watch, then back at the truck. A sip of his soda, and he began to walk forward, his pace at first slow, then with determination. With seamless grace his left hand pulled his 9 mm from its holster under his jacket and fired one round at One, nailing him in the forehead, and then a second into Two who made the mistake of looking out from behind the truck with a WTF look on his face, dropping him before he could dodge back. Armin slowed his pace, again casual, stopping at the levers. He slipped his Glock back into its holster, took another sip from his Diet Coke, rolled Two out of the way under the truck with a boot to his ass. He picked a lever, fortunately the right one, and the ramp raised back up then slid backwards to the ground. Another lever loosened the tow cable and his Rover drifted back to the pavement. He gave it a push as it rolled a bit, and undid the hook, dropping it to the ground. He drained the last of the Diet Coke, walked over, opened the Rover's door, threw the can on the far side floor, and followed it in. He sat for a moment looking the scene over, then started the car and drove off in no particular hurry.
"Fucking Harry", he thought, shaking his head.
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