"There is someone inside!" I shouted, the blood draining from my face.
The crowd erupted into a flurry of panic. Several men rushed forward, pressing their ears near the glass and shouting for the owner. We scanned the empty street, calling out, looking for anyone holding keys, but the street remained deserted.
Every second felt like an eternity. The heat outside was already unbearable, pushing past 100 degrees Fahrenheit. The black metal of the car was absorbing the sun like an oven; it was so hot it physically burned my palm to touch it. Whoever was inside was trapped in a literal baking tin. We couldn't wait for a locksmith. We couldn't even wait for the police.
"Stand back!" I yelled.
I sprinted the remaining few meters to my motorcycle, fumbling desperately with the storage compartment. My fingers closed around the heavy, solid iron of my wheel wrench. I ran back to the car, my heart hammering in my chest.
I raised the heavy iron bar and brought it down on the trunk's lock with all my strength.
Clang!
The first blow bounced off, leaving a deep dent but doing little else. I adjusted my grip, raised it higher, and struck again.
CRACK!