I never knew how hard breathing could be. I hadn't noticed in court or prison or when I lined up my sights and got ready to pull the trigger. Those were all easier than sitting behind the counter in a mini-mart, watching the woman I testified against browsing the aisles.

She shouldn't have been able to find me. I had changed my name, dyed my hair, lost muscle, and moved into a rat's hole of a town. H---, the only thing I didn't do was burn my fingertips clean off.

Watching her, my finger began to itch. I was dying to pull a trigger and end this before she got within range of me. Unfortunately, witness protection didn't like the idea of me owning a gun. Shocking, right? The closest thing I had to a weapon was the red button under the counter that would alert the police in the case of a robbery. I couldn't bring myself to press it. This was between me and her.

I did my best not to show I was focused on her, but she knew all the tactics in my book. So, I didn't watch her. I listened to the sound of her shoes on the cheap plastic tiles. It amazed me how quietly she could walk in stilettos. The sound was nearly impossible to pick up. If I hadn't had to rely on my ears for seven years, I wouldn't have been able to hear it.

How many times had those quiet footsteps hurried to pull my ass out of the fire? It didn't matter anymore. She was no longer an ally. She was here to kill me.

She was coming closer. I refused to look up at her, even when she placed a Three Musketeers bar on the counter in front of me. I turned it over and swiped it under the red line that read the barcodes. The cash register hurried to calculate the price and taxes. It couldn't calculate fast enough. My eyes kept darting to the door in hopes that it might open and save me from her. After seconds that seemed to drag on for years, the small computer finally gave me the price. The oppurtunity to be saved had passed.

"Two dollars and nineteen cents." I stuffed the bar in a small plastic bag, the kind with red 'Thank You's written all over it.

She laid a crisp five dollar bill on the counter in front of me. Her fingertips were painted the same dark blue that they had been all those years ago. Before the register's drawer opened, she parted her maroon lips to speak. What little wisp of hope I had had of her not having come for me vanished.

"You ratted me out, Dustin."

"You let me take the fall." I counted out her change, my hands as steady as they had been during our runs together. "You were going to let me rot in there. I had a way out, and I took it."

"I never knew you to be a coward, darling."

"If that's what you want to call it." I placed the plastic bag on the counter. I wasn't going to let her get to me. That's what she wanted. I'd be d----- if I was going to give her what she wanted.

She glanced down at the plastic bag, pushing her bottom lip out. "I bought that for you. You must be hungry from standing all day."

"Jela, leave. You have no reason to be here." My voice sounded weak, even to me. Still, I had to make her leave. The longer she stayed, the more likely I was to give in and play her twsited game.

"We both know that's not true. I wouldn't have wasted my time tracking you down if I didn't have a score to settle." She pulled a pistol out of her suede jacket. It was had been tucked in her waistband, just like her knives. Her thin fingers trailed along the cold metal, almost lovingly. "I never understood why you chose guns. They are so... impersonal."

"Killing wasn't a game for me." No, it had been so much more. It was a pure rush of adrenaline and the knowledge that one wrong move could end it all. It had never been a game to me; it had been my life.

"Call it what you will." She set the gun on the counter between us with the barrel pointed toward her chest. Her sly smirk didn't reach her dark eyes. They were as cold and calculating as they always were when she was deciding what method of extermination was best.

Shaking my head, I took a step away. My back pressed against the wall of cheap cigarettes and tobacco. I had one exit, but there was no chance that I could get out from behind the counter and through the door without having to fight her. I wouldn't fight her. I had changed.

Jela drew a knife from her waistband and began to fiddle with it. This was her favorite game to play: give the victim a weapon and some slim hope that they could get out alive. I glanced at the pistol sitting between us. I would have exactly ten seconds to grab at the gun before she would throw the knife and pierce my heart. It would take approximately fifteen for me to get the gun, c*** it, and shoot her.

Without thinking, my hand shot out for the gun. My fingers wrapped around the cool metal as I ducked under the counter. She lunged at me, her knife clenched in her fist. I could feel the air move over me. She had barely missed and I knew the next shot she had would be the only one she would need.

I pressed myself as flat onto my stomach as I could. Slowly, I began to army crawl toward the section of the countertop that lifted to let employees out. As I had expected, she was waiting for me. She stood over me with a cruel smile contorting her beautiful features. I jumped to my feet when she swung her foot out to kick me in the face. Instead of landing the brutal blow, she only succeeded in knocking me off my feet. Though the wind was knocked out of me, I had the advantage. She was standing over me, giving me the perfect aim. My finger tightened around the trigger, sending the bullet into her throat with a deafening burst. The sound rang in my ears.

She collapsed to the floor. The hole in her throat welled with blood racing to leave her body. She was struggling to breathe, but she still tried to speak. If I were a fool, I would have knelt beside her to hear her final words more clearly. "You can run, but you know as well as I do that you are a killer. A monster, just like me. She hacked and coughed blood onto the dirty tiles. She knew I wasn't going to help her, but her body was desperate to save itself. It was always funny to me that the body won't die without a fight, even after the mind has given in to death. 

Is it sick that this had always been my favorite part? Watching a body struggle to function after the mind has given up hope for survival was always a fascinating sight. There may even be something phiosophical about it. I was never this close to watch. I had to contend with watching convulsions through a scope.

Though I was enjoying the close-up of death, a sentimental part of me wanted to put her out of her misery. She was my Jela, after all. I scoffed quietly at myself. That wouldn't be much fun at all. Instead of showing mercy, I listened to her choke on her own blood, watching as it pooled around her head like a halo and created a pink foam around her sweet lips.

One she stilled, I knelt beside her, careful not to get her blood on my clothes. I pressed my lips to her still-warm lips. Her saliva and blood tasted sweet on my tongue. I gazed at her, gently stroking her silken onyx hair. "You were wrong. I'm much worse than you."

I shoved the gun in my boot and stood. It was time for me to move on. Maybe I would move to a new city, a new state, or a new country. No matter what I did, I was back in the game and ready to play. After all, people never really change, do they?