She didn’t run for exercise; she ran for a fight. And tonight, she found one.
Writer’s Prompt
The humidity in the city tonight was a thick, wet wool blanket, but Mary Ann Martinez didn’t sweat. She simmered.
Most runners stick to the lit paths of the park, but Mary Ann preferred the ribs of the industrial district—places where the streetlights had been shot out like bad memories. She didn’t need a running partner. She had Sam. Sam was cold, heavy, and nestled right against the small of her back in a custom kydex holster. He was a .38 caliber snub-nose with a hair trigger and a heart of lead.
As she rounded the corner by the St. Jude Food Bank, the rhythmic slap-slap of her sneakers went silent. A rusted Chevy sat tail-first against the loading dock. Two shadows were heaving crates of industrial-sized canned goods into the truck bed. They weren’t wearing uniforms, and they weren’t moving like men on the clock. They moved like scavengers.
Mary Ann felt that familiar tightening in her chest—the golf ball winding up. She didn’t call the cops; she didn’t like the middleman.
“Late for a delivery, boys?” she rasped, her voice cutting through the diesel idle.
The larger shadow froze, a crate of peaches halfway to the tailgate. He turned, his face a map of scars and desperation. His hand didn’t go for a crate this time; it dipped toward his waistband.
“Keep running, girlie,” he spat. “This ain’t your business.”
Mary Ann’s hand drifted to the small of her back. The steel was cool, an old friend offering a handshake. She saw the glint of a blade in the other man’s hand as he stepped off the dock, circling to her left.
“I’m making it my business,” she whispered.
The engine of the Chevy roared. The man on the dock lunged. Mary Ann drew Sam.
How does this ends? Does Mary Ann pull the trigger, or has she finally met a darkness deeper than her own? You decide the final blow.