Rain hammered against the iron roofs, pooling, crowding the sewer grates. It dripped from the glowing signs, beading drops of yellow, blue and red. A t.v beneath four inches of scarred glass lit the alley in a kaleidoscope of garish color.
She remembered the last time she had held a gun. She had been eleven, hunting rabbits with her father on vacation in a small cabin outside Bordeaux. He had taught her to aim with both eyes open. She had killed eight rabbits that day.
Surely gangsters couldn’t run as fast.
Alexander James 