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It wasn’t the hole in the back of the woman’s head that turned Paskia’s stomach, nor the missing half of her skull. No, what drained the colour from Paskia’s cheeks and forced bile into her throat was the sight of the gore splattered across Rodin’s pained face.
She dropped from the hatch and approached, hands steady on the g*n. That was important, as Cali had stressed. Guns had no minds of their own, so the shooter had to retain control at all times, regardless of emotions.
She aimed the g*n at the woman, even though there were no signs of life.
“That’s one way of stopping them,” Rodin said.
Paskia swallowed, couldn’t dislodge the coppery taste of the air.
“Thanks,” she managed to say.
He shuffled, winced, hands clutching his stomach. “Just helping out. Smart, using the h
