Briers and Brambles -- Flash Fiction

Brilliant veins of light slashed across the sky drowning her night vision. A double crack of thunder and the smell of ozone told her it hit close. She closed her eyes to recover sight. She pressed her back against the glass and steel wall, a mail drop box the only thing between her and the empty street. She held her gun tight against her right leg.

Wind whipped rain washed across the street. It blew under the bill of her cap, cold on her face.

Had he gone underground? That’s what she’d do. Only one access point for him to watch. He’d see her, if she followed. And she had to follow. The subway went wherever he wanted to go. She’d never stop him.

Another flash of light and deafening crack of thunder, but she was ready. Head down slightly, her Yankees cap shading her eyes enough. Gran was wrong about Yankees. Sometimes they did do some good.

Someone moved west from the subway entrance, staying close to the building. Was that him? She couldn’t tell. Too much rain.

Gran was wrong about rain, too. She always said, “You should take it and be glad for it, ‘cause come August it’ll stop.”

The man crossed to her side of the street. Too big. It wasn’t him. He tried to look everywhere at once. That was good. That meant he hadn’t seen her. She didn’t move. Stillness made her invisible.

More movement going east from the subway. That was him. She was sure of it. But who was the big guy?

She couldn’t hide in the shadows and let that little son of a bitch get away.

Gran was right about life and her.

She felt the hard steel in her right hand and tensed, ready to run. Big guy or no big guy. Rain or no rain.

“Life’s full of briers and brambles, Sugar Pie. But you’re no balloon.”