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She shoved through the city crowd, briefcase of cash clutched in her sweaty hand. Her watch ticked down the seconds. Ten minutes late.
She would have been there in plenty of time if any cabs had been willing to take her to this part of town. But she'd had to walk.
There—the abandoned warehouse. Someone was waiting at the door. She wasn't too late.
She raced up the steps. The figure didn't move.
It was him. Dead.
The knife through his chest pinned both him and a piece of paper to the door. TOO LATE, the bloody note read.
YOU ARE READING
Whumptober 2024
عشوائيA hundred-word story (yes, exactly one hundred words) for every day in October. Written for Whumptober: https://whumptober.tumblr.com/
