‘They’re getting near, I can feel it,’ Hart said, peeping through the blinds.
‘It’s been nine years. They’ve moved on. You need to as well.’
‘The Mob never moves on. They want me dead.’
‘We’re not moving you again.’
‘I’m being watched. Two women and a man.’
‘Maybe their swingers. Or a figment of your imagination.’
‘And maybe they’re ...’
Hart dashed to the bathroom.
The blast of the shotgun punched a hole in the door. The second shot shredded the federal agent.
Hart scrambled through the window and ran for the tree line.
He knew he’d always be running.
A drabble is a story of exactly 100 words.