Note: A friend of mine (lordmasterkris, if you want to check out his stuff) advised that I write a scene or a quick one-shot to get me back in the mood for writing, since I was a littlerusty from not writing anything in a while. So a quickly churned this out. Nothing much. I ask you to please ignore any factual errors.

"Night Of The Assassin"

The alley provided darkness at best. Narrow, pitch-black and impossible to see anything clearly. A blind man would’ve found it useful. The man who was using it now would not. Sprinting as fast as his feet would carry him, a Grach MP-443 clutched tightly in his left hand, he raced to burst out of the other side, out of the darkness. He was desperate to reach the light of the street, the cars, and the scattered people, somewhere where he could find cover.

He ducked as a bullet whizzed passed his head, narrowly missing him. Racing seemingly forever through the dark and treacherous alley, his eyes struggling to adjust to the light to guide him, he began to wonder why he had done this. He had done this for the money, all five hundred thousand dollars. The person who he’d “whacked” was what had brought him the sudden unwanted attention. Was he ever going to make it out of the alley alive? Was he going to have the money? Was he going to - ?

The man cursed loudly as his knee rammed into an unseen trashcan. He slipped and fell into a puddle of grime. Disgusted, he got to his knees in milliseconds and continued running.

He finally burst out of the alley accompanied by two or three bullets. He looked around frantically. People from all walks of life wandered the street; pimps, drug dealers, druggies, hookers, strippers, male strippers, stoned tourists, drunk teenagers, drunk foreign women showing their off their assets to equally drunk foreign men.

He turned away, looking for a vehicle of any kind that might be on the street. He heard the footsteps getting closer. He was frantic now – he’d thrown the rule of keeping his cool out the window. If they got any closer, he’d be dead. Then he saw it.

Parked on the side of the road, gleaming under the streetlamps was a vintage 1969 Ford Mustang GT muscle car. The jet-black paintwork faded it into the night. He didn’t care about the detail of this exquisite model; if it had wheels, he’d better be on his heels.

Racing up to the car, his luck was with him. The rich idiot that owned the thing had left it open. The man wasted no time in ripping open the driver-side door and leaping in, slamming the door shut. He ignored the dashboard and ripped out a switchblade. Flicking it open, he forced it into the ignition. Twisting it upwards, nothing happened. He quickly tried again. He knew that his pursuers would be getting closer by the second. Again, nothing happened. His breathing increased. He was trying this one last time or he’d just settle for raising the Grach to his head and blowing his brains out.

The Mustang’s engine roared to life. The man smiled to himself; he rarely smiled in his line of work. Third time lucky, he thought. He wasted no time in violently strangling the steering wheel as he peeled out into the road, leaving behind him a dense cloud of tyre smoke and carbon monoxide as he raced down the road.

His pursuers finally reached the end of the alleyway. There were three of them, all dressed in suits; it couldn’t have been any more obvious that they were part of an organised crime syndicate. The first man looked around. The second man turned to him, merely mouthing something and shaking his head. Their target had escaped.

Enraged, the first man threw his Beretta down to the ground. The weapon discharged. He stomped the ground with his Italian loafer in frustration. It began to rain, leaving the three soon soaked through.

Their target was laughing all the way to the bank…