(Short, but sweet.)

Crawling out, Ross coughed, as he looked across at the smash, watching it all unfold in front of his eyes. It was sickening, it felt like he was gonna be physically, violently puking right now, and his own injuries set it off enough. The people in the car he'd hit hadn't got out yet, as he slowly went to his pocket, looking for his phone. It was miraculously not smashed, the burner of a flip-phone made in the age when phones weren't crap, and almost as if he was some kind of drug dealer. It was more than enough, as he dialled 911, coughing blood, dragging himself against the car, looking on.
"Hello 911, what's your emergency?"
"There's been a crash, lots of cars, I'm hurt and my friend is too, I'm at....fuck, I don't know, somewhere in North Las Vegas, it's..." Ross mumbled, seeing colours and his vision blurry, as he could barely speak at all, leaning and looking around, his vision dancing and going to total shit. 
"Can you identify any streets?"
"I can't see shit....arrgh..." Ross moaned, as the men clambered out of the smashed car, smashing out the window, looking at him on the phone.
"We're on our way, sir. We're sending a police and ambulance unit your way, keep the line open." Ross heard, as the men looked at him, a pair of suit and tie wearing mooks, drawing Sig Sauer P226s on cue, looking at him, as Ross clutched his wounds, looking back, dropping the phone to the floor in his weakness.

"Fuck, you might as well finish it." Ross uttered, as one of them shook his head, adjusting the smashed sunglasses and taking them off his face.
"Too easy. Grab the case. He'll bleed out anyway before anyone arrives. The girl will too." He said, his accent distinct, it was Latin American, that was for sure. The man spat a little blood himself, from a cut on his lip, not seriously injured, as he walked over and kicked Ross hard in the stomach, pistol-whipping him against the smashed door of the Focus, and knocking him unconcious.