Breakdown Page #20

A plainclothes FBI AGENT closes a cellphone and walks

over to where Jeff and Amy are sitting at a picnic table.

They are battered and bandaged.

JEFF:

How’s the sheriff?

FBI AGENT:

Out of surgery. It looks like

he’s gonna make it. As for the

wife and kid, she’s not talking,

he’s being turned over to

Protective Services.

Jeff nods soberly.

FBI AGENT:

We’ve got I.D. on the dead

suspects. Turns out they were all

licensed truckers. One of ’em had

a rap for check kiting. Otherwise

they could’ve been model citizens.

JEFF:

What about the leader?

FBI AGENT:

Same thing. His real name’s

Warren Claney. Three speeding

tickets in five years --apart

from that, he’s clean as a

whistle.

Amy watches as cops stack windshields outside the barn.

AMY:

(dazed)

How could they do it? How could

they treat it like a... business?

FBI AGENT:

(shaking his head)

I don’t know. I’ve been doing

this 15 years, I’ve never seen

anything like it.

(MORE)

(CONTINUED)

117.

CONTINUED:

FBI AGENT (CONT’D)

It was simple, efficient and

organized. They stayed on the

move, spread it over a dozen

states. As long as no witnesses

survived, it’s an untraceable

crime.

(looking at them)

You were just a couple of the

lucky ones.

Up ahead, a television news helicopter is landing on the

road. A cameraman, reporter and producer hurry over.

Jeff watches the news crew, a bemused expression. It

seems like a million years ago...

The FBI Agent shakes his head, disdainful.

FBI:

(re:
media)

C’mon --let’s get you folks out

of here before things really get

hairy.

He escorts them to a waiting sedan. As they climb in,

Jeff looks back over his shoulder, surveying the scene

one last time.

He gets in and the car pulls away just as the frenzied

news crew arrives, mikes and cameras at the ready,

running alongside the departing sedan, shouting

questions.

Through the rear window, we see Jeff putting his arm

around Amy, pulling her close as we hear:

AMY:

Promise me one thing...

JEFF:

Name it.

AMY:

Next time... we fly.

EXT. HOUSE -AERIAL -DAY

Over this last line, the sedan drives away, and we CLIMB

HIGHER and HIGHER AWAY FROM the bristling crime scene

until the ranch house is just one in a town of modest

houses and the pink desert floor spreads out endlessly in

every direction.

FADE OUT.

THE END:

Rate this script:0.0 / 0 votes