A rigged deck stole his life savings—now the alleyway darkness holds the final hand.

Cole Wellington wedged himself between two large trash bins, the reek of sour grease masking the stench of his own sweat. His right hand gripped tightly around his .38, knuckles white, the cold steel biting into his palm. He knew Johnny Longstreet would come out of the building at 1:30.
The only light was a single, flickering bulb at the alley’s mouth, cutting yellow slivers through the rising steam. Johnny’s account was long overdue. He’d fleeced Cole of every red cent at a crooked backroom table, laughing through a cloud of cigar smoke: “You’re a loser, punk. I rigged the game. You didn’t have a chance. Go home and cry to somebody.”
Cole wasn’t crying. He was balancing the ledger.
At 1:29, the heavy iron door creaked.
A silhouette filled the threshold, humming an off-key tune. Johnny stepped onto the slick pavement, tugging leather gloves over thick fingers. Under his arm rested a fat leather briefcase—stuffed with tonight’s stolen takes.
Cole thumbed back the hammer. The metallic click was barely louder than a snapping twig, but Johnny froze.
“Step away from the wall, Johnny,” Cole rasped, stepping out from the shadows. The barrel lined up squarely with the center of Longstreet’s chest.
Johnny didn’t flinch. Instead, his mouth twisted into that same venomous smirk. He didn’t drop the case. His right hand casually slipped toward his unbuttoned trench coat.
“Look who grew teeth,” Johnny chuckled softly, his eyes darting toward the distant light. “You don’t have the stomach for it, Cole. Pull that trigger and you hang. Walk away, and you live.”
Johnny’s hand dipped deeper into his coat. Cole tightened his finger on the cold iron curve.
A single shot shattered the midnight quiet.
How does the showdown end? Did Cole take his shot, or did Johnny draw faster? Finish the story in the comments below.








