The smell of gunpowder hung in the air, thick, like cigarette smoke in a dive bar. I nearly coughed up my lunch, as the smell of it hit me from out of nowhere as I found myself standing in the dim light. My arms hung at my sides, the right one cold, clenched in a fist. I raised it in front of my face and discovered the source of the chill permeating my fingers.
Smoke still curled from the barrel, the slide locked back, but the stainless grips held no warmth, only the chill of…
Why am I holding a gun?
I didn’t have an answer.
I looked ahead of me, my eyes adjusting to the darkness, and I could make out enough to know that I was in an alley, behind some restaurant or bar, if the trash was any indication. The part of town was immediately suspect, judging by the lack of light and the sound of sirens and arguments from the surrounding buildings. At my feet—
It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. This hadn’t been the plan.