I ran. I was a gazelle making a beeline straight for the door, even as the mad tigers were starting to rage.

Sound exploded behind me—a cacophony of snarled orders, furious shouts, chairs being knocked over, mechanical snicks as slides slid over actions and bullets were chambered. Someone barked for more guns and more men.

Suddenly it grew pitch black, like a light switched off, and darkness enshrouded the room. A lucky break just in time. My muscles burned as I ran towards the back door by memory.

Just a few more steps. I reached out with my hand—

A bullet ricocheted off the wall in front of me. Fear splashed like ice water up my spine. Calm down, I growled in my head, you’re fine! I pushed my legs harder, my feet slamming into the ground with each swift step.

My fingers feathered over the doorknob briefly before the door swung open without my help. A blast of hot air from outside hit me in the face. A breeze had blown the door open. Which was unlikely as hell and lucky as fuck. Just my calling card.

A manic smile spread over my face. Luck would get me out of here like it always did. I laughed as I leapt through the door, landing on my riding boots. The dark sky glowed with the city’s lights. The smell of gasoline and frying oil lingered in the air. Another bullet shot past me, zinging as it passed, and my smile grew wider as my heart pounded in panic.

The street corner to my left was littered with late night street vendors selling illegal movies and a hodgepodge of ethnic foods from Mexican street corn to Nigerian suya. Their heads disappeared behind their carts as the pop of bullets sounded. None moved their carts, choosing to wait out another short shooting instead of losing their place on the pavement. Their customers fled quickly down alleys and into whatever building was close. A few just crouched down, unimpressed and desensitized to this sort of thing.

“Catch me if you can, boys!” I taunted over my shoulder with a manic laugh, having the time of my life. I raced across the loose gravel parking lot and dug my fingers in my jeans’ pocket, fishing out a small set of keys.

I gulped in the warm air and enjoyed the overwhelming sensation of being alive while gangsters shot at me. This right here was a feeling I could become addicted to, that I was addicted to already. Sometimes I only felt alive when the threat of death was riding my heels, baying like hounds from Hell.

I skidded to a stop beside my Ducati motorcycle, smoothly swung my leg over, and jammed in the key. The engine roared to life. Vibrations hummed pleasantly between my legs. The duffel of cash was a heavy presence on my back.

I took a brief moment to look at my attackers. Furious bosses were streaming out of the building like a mad gaggle of fire ants from a disturbed nest; guns in hand. Their overexerted faces were bulging and red as they futilely tried to catch up, their guns firing wildly. One man ran into the parking lot, slipped, and kissed the gravel. I laughed. The rest slowed down to avoid the same fate.