'Bent' by Oscar Windsor-Smith
Traffic thunders past the door. If the first car I see is red I’ll do it tonight. No more yes sir, no sir. This time I’ve got a Walther 9 mil nestled at my waist.
The door opens fast and he’s inside. Before it shuts I see a flash of red.
“I know you’re in here kid,” he growls into the dark. “I can smell your cowardly butt.”
Yeah, like I've smelled him, too often and too close. Cuban cigars. Cologne. Expensive for a cop.
“You got my stuff?” He’s almost on me when I pull the gun.
A light flashes and he laughs right in my face, reaching for his Glock. “That’s your last move, Dumbo. The safety catch is on.”
I test his theory.
And he’s wrong.