Mike headed home, headed to bed, sleep. A sound behind him–leather on concrete. He moved: over a low wall, ducked down. A thunder crack–a puff of brick-dust—a shot just missed. “Give it up, I’ll do you clean”. Mike crawled along behind the wall—hands and knees—no cover but the wall. Trapped. Popped his head up, eyeballed, ducked. Vinnie stood across the street—a .45 in his hand. Crack/Brick-dust. Slow–had a chance. Mike drew his .38: checked the load, cocked it. He hefted a chunk of brick: small, too light. Another: bigger, just right. He threw it along the wall. A shallow flight–crested just above the wall top, then fell. Crack. Crack. Crack. He went over the wall, .38 leading. Vinnie saw the move, tried to turn back— Slow slow slow–no chance. Mike drew a bead, fired.
Posted on Monday, 21 March 2011
