Becky's heart was in her mouth as she ran for dear life, her breath impossibly loud in the still night air. Strands of her long blonde hair caught in the branches as she raced past, leaping over tree roots in the park and glancing at her watch. 360 seconds. Could she make it? Doubtful. But she had to try. She had come this far, and there was no way she was going to give up now. After 4 months working on this case, hundreds of hours poring over countless documents and blueprints and articles – she was not going to stop, not now. She was so close to the bridge, just another hundred metres…
Becky gasped and nearly stumbled as a sharp gunshot over her head shattered the stillness of the night. Dammit, now there'd be more people coming, attracted to the noise as moths to a light. Fifty metres left now, and they hadn't shot at her again. Maybe the first one was a warning, maybe they didn't want her dead, maybe…
Famous last words. Two shots fired in quick succession made Becky dive for cover behind a tree, wasting valuable time. Another glance at her watch told her that she only had 240 seconds left, and she was exhausted. Damned if she was going to give up now, though. With one final effort, she pushed off from the wide tree trunk and raced towards the bridge, now only ten metres away. She reached the bridge, pulled the grappling hook out of her pack and used it to latch onto the tower closest to her - one of two ugly metal structures supporting between them a couple of light-up speed limit signs. She calculated as she ran the point where she would have to jump to be able to swing across to the sign, to get maximum swing distance so she could have the sign between her and the thugs. As she pushed off from the point, the rope held fast and got her across to the other side of the gap. Thankfully, the thugs that were chasing her ran right past the bridge.
Becky took a deep breath. This was the most critical point of the plan, the getaway. If even one thing went wrong here, she could get killed, or worse, captured. Taking careful breaths to control her nerves, and trying not to look down at the motorway below, she set to work, attaching the grappling hook to the harness she wore around her waist and testing the strength. She attached the other end to the sign and got ready to lower herself down, trying not to think about the 10-metre drop if the rope did not hold. Taking a deep breath, she gripped the rope with all her might and slowly began to lower herself down. Her watch told her she had only 18 seconds left, but 18 seconds is a long time if you spend it dangling over a motorway, waiting for a car that might never come. At 15 seconds, she saw the headlights in the distance, taking their sweet time to come to her. She began to watch the line painted on the road, knowing she must let go of the rope when the headlights in the distance passed that line.
At 10 seconds, there was another loud crack to shatter the silence. It made her flinch, and the rope swayed alarmingly. She swore out loud. The rope had to stay completely straight, or she ran the risk of missing the car and falling splat onto the hard motorway below. She heard the yells of the thugs above her, who had evidently seen her and were taking pot-shots at her in the darkness. 5 seconds to go. Three more cracks made her jump, but the rope stayed still thankfully. 3 seconds...2…1…
She let go just as the car passed the line, and thanks to careful research, planning, and measurements, she fell into the vehicle. She jumped up, shut the sun roof, and yelled, "Go, go, go!" Watson winked at her in the rear-view mirror, and floored the accelerator as the car sped off into the night.