Rain drops hit my window like the slow patter of the drum in a funeral dirge. I hate rain. Lightning illuminates the dark room and the deep rumble of thunder echoes my own dark thoughts. I need to get out of here.

Another flash of lightning shows her lying in the bed; thin sheets clinging to her lithe curves as if I was seeing her naked. We’re lovers--friends--friends who share an occasion or two between those sheets. We’ve never committed ourselves to each other. My line of work is too dangerous. I'd hate to see her widowed by a stray bullet. If there were anyone I could say I care about, it’s her. I care for her more than for myself; strange as that sounds.

Speaking of bullets, pain rips through my shoulder as I pull my undershirt on over my head. A fresh bandage covers the gaping hole some slug had put there earlier this evening. I’m glad it only hit my shoulder rather than a few inches lower and closer in. She’s glad too, though I could tell from the concern in her eyes that she was scared she might have lost me tonight.

Dressing in the dark, I grab my holster, gun, and overcoat and slip out the door. It’s raining harder now, and the lightning constantly lights the dark sky. Thunder shakes me from my reverie and reminds me why I’m heading back out into the rain.

I dart down deserted streets, failing to stay dry. I finally turn down a dark alley and make my way to a small door where light sneaks out from under the stoop. I listen at the door, confirming what I thought earlier when I got my little “package” in my shoulder.

I try the knob. Locked. Fortunately, I’m pretty good at picking locks. I kneel on the step and work my magic on the key hole. Trying the door again, I smile as it responds by swinging inward on cue.

The light spills out onto the alley as I slip in and close the door behind me. I doubt anyone sees me enter, but it’s better to be safe than sorry. The dim lamps on the walls of the hallway cast odd shadows on the wall, but I’m more comfortable with the shadows.

I make my way to the source of the noise. Cocking the hammer on my .357, I wince again as that slug reminds me to be careful. I peer around the corner and slip unnoticed behind a box marked “Borax Laundry Powder”. Liquor running is dirty business, and what could be more appropriate than to pack the bottles into boxes of cleaning product?

I had to act quickly before the trucks arrived and they started shipping this stuff out. I hear the large doors at the other end of the room open and gruff voices complain that the shipment isn’t ready yet. Damn, I’m too late! I jump up from my hiding place and place a few shots into the backs of some thick skulls and dash for other cover in the confusion. I’ve only a few seconds to count targets. I count twenty-five. My gun holds six bullets, and my pocket holds twenty more. If I don’t miss, I had enough. I’d put two down which dropped my total to twenty-three. I do some quick figuring in my head and hope my algebra teacher was right about carrying the one. I don’t like my chances, but if everything goes my way, I’d survive.

In my new hiding place, I suddenly feel a twinge at not telling Loretta I loved her. I’d been too afraid of hurting her to make an honest woman of her and start a family. I fire two more shots, and take two more down. Twenty-one.

Bullets splinter the wall behind me as I dash to a new location. One step ahead of the spray, I find myself wishing I’d spent more time with my dad as a kid. He drank heavily and I hated him for that, but I wish I could have known him better. I also wish I’d gone to his funeral. Two more shots. Nineteen.

I crouch behind a table and reload. I should have gone to watch the Cubs play at Wrigley. Three more shots--sixteen. An “Untouchable” was all about the job, but now my mind seems intent on replaying every mistake I’ve made. I feel the heat as a bullet clips past my ear and shatters a bottle of whiskey on the shelf. Damn! I fire again. Thirteen.

Another dash to reload and I fire again. Nine left. I scream as I feel a stab to my thigh. I stare at the hole in my pants leg that is now oozing blood. Collapsing behind the boxes again, I rip off my tie to make a bandage. I am aware of the electricity in the air, and know I won’t make it out of this one. As they continue to shoot out the plaster on the wall, I wrap up my leg and take a few deep breaths. Between shots, I dart from behind my cover and empty my pistol. Every bullet finds its mark, and two more fall. Seven.

I run lamely to the door I’d come in, hoping to buy some time with a little “hide-and-seek” in the offices down the hall. I never make it. I feel the bullet hit me square in the back. I stumble forward, losing the feeling in my legs quicker than I would have thought. Collapsing against the far wall, I load six more bullets from my jacket. I feel the coldness creeping up my back to my chest, and breathing becomes very hard to do. I chuckle now. My life is gone, and I’ll never get the chance to share a moment with my Loretta again. No matter. I’ll finish the job. I raise my pistol with all the strength I have left and fire.