The back room of the bar smelt of damp dogs and stale beer with a hint of cinnamon.
‘You got the money?’
‘Right, here.’ Mike tapped the bag, tried not to look nervous.
There were shots out front, then shouting.
‘Fuck!’ The courier bolted for the door, bursting out into an unlit back lot, heading for a battered four-by-four.
Mike followed, but dashed for the scrub of the desert.
The jeep roared into life, but had barely moved before bullets pinged from its shell.
The darkness of the wilderness swallowed him; taunts, shots and whoops of bravado in quick pursuit.
A drabble is a story of exactly 100 words