He's quick for being so round, but you can't let a man with eighty grand on his head vanish or you'll be the one sipping merlot with an almond finish. Besides, how hard could this be? After living through the Chicago incident running down Mr. Monopoly can't be that daunting. You're a professional, for chrissakes, so get on it.
You're out the door and moving faster than you have in a while, getting winded too soon. Remember for later: Chuck the cigarettes. For real this time. You owe it to yourself, and your poor mum, she worries.
Mr. M turns the corner ahead. He looks back as he makes an unexpectedly nimble right down the alley, and the glare from his monocle is momentarily blinding. Bounding over trash and vagrant alike, Mr. M is widening the gap. Better act now.
Leaning against the rain soaked brick wall to steady your aim, you raise the .22 Ruger into position. More firepower would be nice now, but at least it's accurate....
The first shot misses, you are sure of it. Yet Mr. M stops and turns halfway around, as if in disbelief that you would pull such an audacious move at three in the afternoon. You swear he looks angry, even though it's honestly too far to tell. His monocle is right out in the open however. That damn monicle! how does it stay in place?
He gives you just enough time to land the second round somewhere in his right side. Not fatal probably, but it will slow him down. You'll take what you can get.
You'll have to. Mr. M spins and is off again, clutching his wound. As you stumble and wheeze out onto the sidewalk again, Mr. M is gone. With the Ruger tucked into your pants, and your hands resting exhaustedly on your aching knees you see no other alleys or open sewer hatches to hide in. But the No. 13 bus is just pulling away, and you know its route well. Last stop for number 13: the hotel at Parkplace, right next to the boardwalk.