They thought she was an easy target; they didn’t realize she was the one doing the hunting.
Writer’s Prompt
The neon sign for Carlo’s flickered, casting a bruised purple light over the puddles in the alley. Jeanette stepped into the damp air, the scent of stale grease and trash clinging to her coat. She didn’t look back. She didn’t have to. The rhythmic scrape of two pairs of heavy boots against the pavement told her exactly where they were.
“Hey, sweetheart,” one called out, his voice a jagged blade of gravel and overconfidence. “Leaving so soon? The night’s just getting started.”
Jeanette reached into her pocket, fingers brushing the cold, textured grip of the .38. She felt the familiar electric hum of adrenaline. They saw a petite target in a trench coat; she saw two more entries in a ledger that needed balancing. She turned slowly, her heels clicking a sharp, final note against the concrete.
The two men fanned out, flanking her. The taller one grinned, revealing a chipped tooth and a soul made of soot. “You look a little lost,” he sneered, closing the gap. “Maybe you need someone to show you how things work around here.”
Jeanette leaned against a dumpster, the attitude she wore like armor settling into a lethal stillness. “I know exactly how things work,” she whispered, her voice barely audible over the hum of a distant siren.
As they lunged, the shadows swallowed the first movement. A muffled crack echoed off the brick walls—but was it a gunshot or a breaking board? Jeanette went low, a blur of motion, but the second man was faster than he looked, his hand reaching for her throat.
The alley went silent. A single shell casing rattled across the ground. Who is left standing when the smoke clears?
How does Jeanette finish the job? You decide the final blow.
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