Colt’s Point Of View
Blood tasted like metal and dirt in my mouth. I couldn’t tell whose it was anymore—mine, Brian’s, or Papa’s. The snow was stained in streaks of red and brown, trampled by boot prints and desperation. Krystal lay motionless at my feet, her hair fanned out like a halo. I’d shoved her just in time, but that last gunshot had whistled too close.
“Move,” I growled, limping forward, gun trained on Brian.
He had one hand raised, the other clutching his side where I’d clipped him with the shot. His breath came in wheezes, and his eyes were wide, darting between me and Krystal like a man finally realizing he’d played the wrong hand.
“You’re not walking away from this,” I said.
Brian opened his mouth to plead—but I didn’t wait.
One final shot. Center mass. His body jerked
