She was taught breath control at a young age. Specifically, at eight years old she was taught to exhale all of the air out of her lungs before pulling the trigger. Her brother explained that anything she could do to reduce her heart rate in the heat of the moment would make her shots more accurate.
So as her back slid across the top of the hood of the cherry red mustang she loved, her sights remained on the man chasing her. Her legs spread eagle framing her sights. She exhaled, squeezed the trigger and he shocked backward.
She landed hard on her back. The pavement was unforgiving. “Fuck me.” She said rising to her feet. She got in the car and hit the start button. She kicked off her heels so she could really drive. As she accelerated down the darkened street she was grateful that she had opted for the Bluetooth system. The engine roared, she downshifted.
Xyla’s red pony car grew tinier on the darker two lane road. Her chaser sat up in the street light. Blood poured from his shoulder. He pulled his phone from his jacket pocket.
“Yeah. No. She got away. Yeah, I took a hit. Come pick me up.”