Ah youth. Husselbeck had it. Bumstead didn’t. So the rookie had at least a 10 pace lead on him as they darted through the back alleys chasing a fading scream.
One by one they manoeuvred the narrow spaces of the alley. The rain poured into his eyes, muffling the sounds of Husselbeck’s footfalls as he turned the corner ahead and stopped abruptly. And then the gunshot rang out.
Bumstead drew his revolver as he slowly approached the scene. There was the rookie, shot in the arm, lying against the wall.
“He got away chief.” Husselbeck coughed and passed out.