‘Come on then, if you think you can take me, come on.’
He was taunting me. I don’t like being taunted. I lifted my arm five inches. The gun was pointing at his forehead now. I heard a step creaking behind me. I spun round and dropped to my knees. A bullet flew over my head. My aim was instinctive. I pulled the trigger, once, twice, three times. My attacker collapsed and fell backwards down the stairs. I spun round again in time to register a dark shape about to bring a club down on me. I fired. He stumbled and blood oozed out of his chest. I rolled aside before he fell. I got to my feet, my gun aimed at his back. He lay still. I kicked him in the shoulder. He didn’t respond. I leaned down, grabbed him and pushed his lifeless body over. His eyes stared up at me; blood drooled from the corners of his mouth.
(Continued on my bits that are too long)
3 comments:
Liz, I can tell at a glance when writing's not "got it" (that dreaded "X-factor"! Lots of self-published novels are like that. But your writing's got "it" in spades!
PS bad news: Itchy died last night!
Eww, very graphic! I could picture it all.
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