Ten story drop if I missed it. Two story drop if I made it.
I’d had better odds, and I’d had worse. In the glare of that Texas sun fate seemed to smiling, smirking at least. She’s a fickle whore of a muse, if you ask me.
“Aaron, quit screwing around and…”
“Bite me, Finch.” It wasn’t the best comeback I’d ever thought of, but I was a bit busy judging the distance and my ability to make it carrying a briefcase that big, reinforced, and full of someone else’s money. It was the last bit serving as motivation for the mental effort at the moment and the physical exertion to come. A physics problem from college came to mind, but I tried to push it aside.
Someone’s swearing began to echo up the stairwell signaling the end of thinking time. I always did better at doing than thinking anyway. Three steps back, then five quick strides before one heck of a jump, and my cowboy boots sent me hurtling across a gap not meant for leaping.
The wind whipping past my ears all but obscured Finch’s yell, “…Katy’s here…”