‘On Air’

The ‘ON AIR’ sign bled crimson into the soundproof booth.

Cold steel bit into Mark’s temple.

The gunman yanked Mark’s collar, levelling the barrel through the glass partition at the producer, who froze in her seat.

‘Don’t,’ Mark choked out.

‘One wrong breath and I paint the console with you,’ the man said, twisting the cotton until it choked Mark’s throat. ‘No clever cues. Read the script, or she dies first. Then you.’

Mark gripped the mixing board, his fingers trembling. Ten years of wrapping Hawke’s Bay in smooth morning banter distilled to the snap of a cocked hammer—dry as breaking bone.

‘Good morning, Hawke’s Bay,’ Mark forced through clenched teeth, his voice crackling through the feed. ‘We’re breaking format today for a confession.’

On the console was the index card: I took what wasn’t mine.

He veered off script. ‘For six months, I’ve been making a mistake—’

The heavy barrel cracked across his cheekbone, blooming heat and blood down his jaw. Hot breath pressed against his ear. ‘Read the words.’

Blinding pain blurred his vision as he forced his eyes back to the card. ‘I am a coward,’ he read, his voice trembling across the coast. ‘I preyed on a lonely woman...’

In the glass reflection, the stranger’s eyes held no frantic wildness—only a cold, calculated focus.

Six months. Tuesdays.

The gunman leaned over the desk, grinding the muzzle into Mark’s temple. His jacket snagged the console housing—a sharp rip, and a heavy leather key fob clattered across the soundboard.

Stamped into the burnished leather was a stylised anchor coiled in rope.

The exact fob from her bedside table. He could still hear her laughing, complaining about spending two hundred dollars on a custom gift for a husband too married to his job to notice.

‘Say her name,’ the man hissed. ‘Tell them who you took.’

Mark stared into the glowing red bulb as the feed hummed over the airwaves.

‘Hannah,’ he whispered into the mic. ‘I’m sorry, Andrew.’