Sam Witwicky Death Novels & Stories

"As you wish, Don Moretti. We’ll handle the arrangements." They left, the door clicking shut behind them. I sat alone in the silence, staring at Vito's photo. He was only twenty-five, a kid who made a greedy mistake. He was dead because of my words. I wanted to throw up, but I had to sit there and be the leader they expected. By 11 PM, my phone rang. I stared at the screen for a long time before answering. "It's done," Ricci said. "Clean. He never saw it coming. He was walking to his car after dinner. One shot, professional."

Coincidence or getting rid of a potential witness? She decided to do a bit of digging on the couple listed as witnesses on the accident report. She found a mugshot for Lorenzo Sabin dated a year after Adam’s death. He was booked on charges of possession, gun charges, and driving while under the influence. But what jumped out at Amber even more, was another hit on Sabin, while serving his sentence for those crimes, he was found hanged in his cell. It was ruled as a suicide. What the fuck were the odds that two different men named in Adam’s case, both wound up dead in prison within a few years after the wreck?

I take my place at my desk, sitting in my chair. “Sir, we were unable to trace the walkie-talkie to the figure you mentioned,” a Delta officer speaks out. His eyes are a dark blue with gold specks. “We did find the individual from the CCTV footage we sent you. He was captured trying to leave the country two days ago. We cannot confirm or deny if it was the figure from your home. He…he committed suicide. Cyanide tablet under his tooth.” I look among the high-ranking officers. Their Adam’s apples bob up and down, gulping. I hold back my anger, feeling my body heat up with firey intensity.

The memory answers before she can stop it. Her back against the concrete pillar. The dead closing in. One hand pressed to her bleeding arm. The bag gone. Dex gone. No rescue. No miracle. Just her, laughing once because of course this was how it ended, because if she had known betrayal came with this much paperwork she would have asked for a receipt. She had still tried to get up. Even then. Especially then. “That’s a flattering way to say I died stubborn.” It was a statistically significant death. A laugh escapes her before she can catch it. Small. Ugly. Almost nothing.

No matter his schedule, he always found time to whip up a cup of hot cocoa for me, then sat close by, watching as I took each sip. "Donna." The door tapped open, and one of my guys stepped in. "Got word from Italvia: Nolan Winston has kicked the bucket." I looked up. "How'd he go?" "Booze got the best of him, ended up a popsicle in some slum alley." He flicked a photo my way. "Caught it on the scene." I snagged the photo for a quick look. The man in the photo was huddled against a wall, covered in grime, with the telltale purple of a drunk's demise.

Maybe this is a sign to fix our relationship? The bodyguards enter a VIP room. When I’m about to knock, Carter's voice rings out, filled with fury. So I stagger back. "You're stupid! I'm not squandering money for you just to fail!" A voice, fearful and unfamiliar replies, "I-I'm sorry, Mr. Whitlock. I re-really thought he's done. I was at full speed to make sure that the impact of the car hitting him would kill him." Carter's next words sucks the air out of me.

Wyatt asked, his fingers drumming on the table. The man looked at him with shock. "You don't know what you are saying!" He shot, "Do you have proof?" "Alpha Carter, you should know if I want proof, I'll get it." "Levi is no longer alive, he's dead. Xandros also killed the men, there is no proof any where." "Oh," Wyatt said boringly and clicked his fingers, a man walked in with a tab which he dropped on the table. Wyatt pushed it towards Carter.

Travis's voice trembled with disbelief, his brow furrowed with grief. "See, Travis? I told you! She faked her death—this was all a setup! And you got so sick over this vindictive woman!" After I "died," Travis had fallen into a deep depression, becoming seriously ill. The story had gone viral, with photos of Travis looking frail in his hospital bed. His eyes hollow, whispering, "I don't want anyone else, just Sarah. I'd trade my life for hers. I'd do anything if she could just be alive again."

So, she turned away and threw up. Brad held her hair back and rubbed her back. "We need to get you out of here." He said. But Nicole couldn't move and couldn't function at that point. The medics were checking Sophia, but it was pointless as she was gone. One of them looked at the officers and shook his head. "Time of death, 2:47 PM." The words felt unreal and clinical. ‘Sophia Anders. Dead at twenty-two.’ Mr. Anders finally moved, stood up and his legs were shaking.

“Drinks, music, stupid teenage chaos. I… I was the one who stole the key. I was the one who got everyone inside. It was my idea. My party.” My fingers tightened slightly on his arm. “There was this kid—Peter Whitaker,” he said. “He wasn’t even supposed to be there. He barely talked to anyone. But he showed up. He got really drunk. And then he…” His voice cracked again, and this time, he swallowed hard. “He drowned.” I felt my stomach drop. My breath caught somewhere between disbelief and heartbreak. “We all ran. Every single one of us. Left him there. No one called for help. No one said a word. We just… vanished.”