Traiteur

“Damn it!”

I slammed my hands against the keyboard on my lap. This was the third time this week! If I didn’t have my story finished by Friday, I’d find myself in my editor’s office – blinds closed – out of which I would hastily exit, making a beeline for my coat and car keys. I would avoid the swiveling heads, silently curse the many fingers hovering over keyboards and head towards the elevator.

I made a mental note to thank Big Guns upstairs for the timely power outage.

I picked up the paper on the coffee table. I had been following the story of a missing 18-year-old girl from Austin, Texas named Leena Russett. I had studied her picture off and on throughout the past few days, pulling as much information as I could from that single photograph; long, dirty blonde hair framing a pale complexion and shockingly green eyes. She was on her way to visit her grandparents in Greece, her parents said in Monday’s Globe interview. The Police tracked down her luggage at an Athens airport only hours ago, but remained ill-informed of her exact whereabouts. She’s been missing for nearly four days now.

I rested my head in my hands, avoiding the glare of the monitor permanently imprinted on the inside of my eyelids. I had been at this desk for hours, scouring my sources and archives for something – anything – that would help me finish my article for The Chicago Tribune, back home. That is, until the glorious World Wide Web had cut out on me, followed by my phone… then my desk lamp...

The Tribune had placed me in a small apartment in France, above a well known café called Traiteur. Last Friday’s journey overseas had been quite the interesting flight, sitting beside both a Terminator fanatic and a Priest from Tennessee. Needless to say, I was glad when the pilot announced the beginning of our descent. During the past week, I had taken my camera with me in heavy bouts of rain and merciful streams of sunshine. In between professional shots I had taken to wandering the streets, interviewing local store owners and admiring the sights of cobblestone alleys and intricate stone fountains. I even found myself riding a rented bike to and from the world renowned Louvre one afternoon.

That night, however, I merely sighed and leaned back into the sofa I had come to call home. I would finish my article in the morning; there was little point in trying to continue without power. I felt my breathing slow as I closed my eyes and began to drift off…

Sleep never greeted me. I sprang to my feet at the sound of my apartment door being kicked to the ground. Five men dressed entirely in black charged inside. I reached for the desk chair and started swinging it madly in every direction, desperate to keep as much distance as I could between me and the approaching gang.

I needn’t have tried so hard. One caught me from behind, bringing me to my knees. Two others were searching through my papers strewn across the surface of the coffee table.

“Hey! Wha— ” I protested.

The blow forced my head to one side as I spat blood onto the floor. When I looked up again, blurry-eyed, it was to see a photograph – my photograph – a group of girls dancing festively in front of the Traiteur.

“You’re in over your head, boy!” one of the masked men snarled in my face.

And in the center of the photograph I saw her.

Blonde Hair. Green Eyes.

Leena.

***

This is my photograph-based short story! I admit I have a hard time condensing my work within assigned word limits, and I'm afraid that the sudden turn of events near the end seems like i'm rushing to get the story wrapped up.
Are my uses of narrative summary/moment effective?