The door slammed against brick wall, Larson darted through the opening, struggling to change his trajectory ninety degrees. He brushed against the far wall, finding his stride, his legs and arms pumping.
‘You’re a dead man, Larson,’ a voice boomed from the doorway.
A chunk of masonry popped from the wall ahead of him, the retort of the shot echoing loudly.
Larson started to weave, but didn’t break stride.
Two more retorts, followed by a stream of inventive swearing.
The alley opened onto a street and Larson veered left. Six months of undercover work blown. He need to warn Janie.
A drabble is a story of exactly 100 words.