IN DANGER

Charlie Weaver barreled down on the intersection in her red MG convertible. It was one of those early spring days that almost felt like summer, warm with a fresh breeze. The late afternoon sun gilded the air and a light lemony green shimmered in the trees and shrubbery. Birds sang and played in swoops and swirls. Who could ask for a more perfect end to her day?
Although Charlie loved her job as an insurance actuary, driving home from work was like being let out of school. The wind whipped through her hair, enhancing the sense of wild freedom. The throaty growl of the powerful engine warmed her.
“Thank you, God, for my blessings.” A warm rush of contentment washed over her. She hoped nothing would change anytime soon.
Ahead of her the traffic light turned red from yellow and she brought the car to a stop. This light was the only one that ever caught her on the way home. Suddenly, the passenger door was wrenched open and a man piled in beside her.
“You’re in danger,” he said. “Pull over.”
“What?” she exclaimed. “Who are you? What are you talking about?”
“You’re in more danger than you know. Pull over, now.”
The light turned green and she drove through the intersection and pulled up to the curb.
“Get your go-bag out of the trunk and come with me. Come on,” the man said. “Move it!” He jogged down the sidewalk, not hurrying but at a ground-eating lope. He jaywalked to the other side.
Momentarily too stunned to protest, Charlie followed.
The man pulled a remote device out of his pocket and the lights of a car two spaces ahead of them flashed twice.
“Get in.”
Still not sure why, Charlie obeyed.
“Buckle up.”
Again, she obeyed without protest.
Just as the engine started, an explosion erupted behind them. When she looked into the side mirror, she gasped. Her MG was in flames.
“Wait a minute! What just happened? What did you do? Who are you anyway?”
“You just died, Charlie. You’ll be okay for a little bit if I can get you to a safe place, undetected. How much longer you will be safe will depend on how well you do what we tell you, and a lot of old-fashioned luck.” With that, the man steered into the street and drove away, leaving Charlie’s MG smoking by the curb, and the sound of sirens in the distance. So much for the hope that her very comfortable life would not change soon.
The driver was gaining distance without calling attention to the light gray car in which they rode. He wasn’t scowling, but his body language would ordinarily have made her hesitant to try to begin any conversation or to ask questions. Just the same, she wasn’t about to submit to his bullying without knowing who he was and what was going on.
“Tell me who you are and what is going on.” Her words were a plea, but there was nothing pleading about her body language.
“We got off to a rather abrupt start,” he said. “I apologize. I’m Tom Starn. I work for the Philadelphia District Attorney’s Office. I’m sorry there wasn’t time for explanations. I hope we’ve bought a little time now for an exchange of information. Most of what we know about you, Charlie, is your name and that you’re in danger.