Finders/Keepers

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Hank was sixty-two and balding, with a paunch he had probably developed after retiring from the state police, and she was going to have to shoot him. She didn’t want to do it, but there was no other choice. They were watching her. More specifically, he was watching her. One wrong move and she would never make it out of the diner alive. In this case, the “wrong move” was not pulling the trigger.

So Allie shot the ex-cop.

He hadn’t seen her standing in the door that connected the back hallway with the kitchen when he sneaked out of the bathroom. The tail of his well-worn dress shirt was draped unsightly over the back of his waist, and her shot hit him in the thigh. He let out a surprised grunt and stumbled forward a couple of steps before his legs — first the right, where her bullet had hit, then the left — buckled under him.

Despite the extra pounds and years, Hank proved to be surprisingly spry and stuck out both hands to stop his face from slamming into the grime-caked floor. Unfortunately that also meant letting go of the black snub-nose revolver clutched in his right hand, and the gun skidded loudly across the diner.

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