A Fugitive on the Loose, Where’s the Noose?
A glint from the shadows, a momentary glint of light in the darkness. A single short breath was the only reaction he allowed himself, but he was wildly aware of the increased threat.
Within the shadow, however, a bead of sweat broke out on the forehead, and snaked down the side of the face, driven by a powerful and awful power, beyond the control of the straining brain secreted below that forehead. She knew that the metal object in her hand had given away her position. Whose move next?
This is not, however, a game that regulates on turns: they both moved. Instinctively he went down and forwards, she drew back. And like that, in half of a blink of an eye, they were off again.
At full stretch she sprinted into the darkness, the sweat now enveloping her completely, the gun’s secure position in her tight grip under risk. His hurried footsteps started a beat after hers, but she heard them not, her breathing too loud, her brain focussing on ‘flight’ to the detriment of the senses.
She knew, her experience and intelligence told her, that they would not be merely chasing her, but they would be chasing her somewhere, a trap, a cordon of officers ready to contact like a noose. He knew where, she needed to keep moving, and all the time think, guess, second-guess.
He smiled as she ducked down the alley. His plan was working, she would emerge into his carefully constructed cage. He slowed, followed her down the alley, his people would do the job.
Emerging into the beautiful, rain-soaked, medieval square he looked. Where was she? Where was his team? What had gone wrong?
The overnight train left the ornate, majestic arch of the central station on time. The last ticket was brought in cash, sweat-stained notes thrust hurriedly across the counter.
Today I wrote between 16:25 and 16:40. I was prompted by an idea here.
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