47
Exit Wounds
It wasn’t the fear of dying that was the problem.
It was the fear of not living.
After all I’d just been through. With all that needed to be done. To be scrubbed out like a bad equation. Days after my seventeenth birthday.
And whatever bullets to the face felt like, it couldn’t have been worse than the anticipation. As the men squeezed their triggers, I hoped for instant death.
And that’s exactly what I got,
A triple-tap.
Blood jetting out of all three goon-shaped heads, as bullets punched their way out of skulls, with barely a whisper. The goons were dead before they hit the ground; fingers locked stiff around triggers.
I turned, expecting to see a shooter. I saw nothing but runway melting into a wobbly heat haze.
Where had that bullet come from?
Out of a porthol
