When the Smoke Clears - [Story-Driven, Introduction only]

Hey! :D

So I've always kinda considered myself happy to write, so I figure why not try to write something and post it up to here? This story's not really meant to be something REALLY arousing, as it's story-driven and focuses more on romance than sex (but there will be sex!).

Just putting the intro out here for a little interest check - after all why write if no one wants to read more? :')

Anyway...

When the Smoke Clears

Lightning struck, bathing the road with a flash of bright light as rain blanketed the small black vehicle making its way down the road. The cabin was quiet, deathly still, but for the patter of drops against windows. Two of the four souls castled within the doors glanced every now and then back to one another, breaths shallow but even. Adrenaline broiled within them, driving their fingers to drum over their legs and the dusty arm-rests. There’s a look to criminals who know exactly what they’re going to do - it doesn’t take long to find, and this is it.

The engine kicked into the next gear; the giddy thrill of acceleration built up in their stomachs and then immediately dissipated. Her tongue flicked at the corner of her mouth habitually, eyes watching the road carefully. It was empty, cold and wet. Traffic at this time of night was uncommon. A dark, husky whisper from the back broke the palpable silence.

“Is this business, or do you just need some pocket change?” It asked. The voice that asked belonged to a masked face, eyes hard and cold. The shadow in the passenger seat twisted ever-so-slightly; she was listening. The masked woman spoke again, this time in a tone more frustrated. “Why don’t we just go home? Crack open a piggy bank?”

The voice from the front seat cut through the woman’s steely nerves.

“No. We discussed this already. We don’t wait. We don’t go home. We don’t fade into the background. You want to make an impact, Drugu? We stockpile. We plan. We act.” It was a tempered voice, masked by a light Slavic accent. It was low, husky, and confident, with a vague air of arrogant superiority. The figure’s head tipped to the side, the light of the streetlamps catching on its masked jaw-line.

“Act!?” The exasperated voice, hushed to a whisper, broke the finality that the figure’s words had implied. “No good can come from this repetitive der’mo!”

“Good?” The voice now seemed amused. “No. We make them afraid; make this populace scared of every shadow that crosses their way. We own them…” The masked figure raised its hand and clenched its fingers into a tight fist. Their voices were similar, but it was clear which held more weight in the conversation. Now distinguishable as female under the flickering passing street lights, the figure in the front passenger seat raised her hand behind the headrest, as if expecting something to be placed in it. “Give me your gun.”

The passenger in the rear h