James
Despite the cold, my heated face streams sweat which soaks down my neck and into my clothes.
Slow down, Man...
You can't sprint for a mile...
I drop to a trot and my heartbeat decelerates to something more sustainable. The banging behind my ears subsides.
Don't panic...
The kidnappers may say Don't be late, but their priority is the money.
Irony slaps me around the cheeks. Here I am, in an area I wouldn't normally consider walking at night, certainly not alone. And I'm running through it, toting a bag containing a cool million in cash.
The steady rhythm of my jogging sets a metronome ticking in my head, clearing my thoughts.
How fast is a jog?
Six miles an hour?
So, I should cover my mile in the ten minutes I have.
Calm down...
Nonetheless, I find myself counting paces;
