FORTY-FIVETHE MAGAZINE FOR THE P226 in my hand was loaded with 20 rounds.
One of them found its way into the chest of one of the guards, entering through this left side and not exiting. The only thing that came out of him was a surprised groan as he clasped at the area he was shot. The other man had started to reach for a side-arm and gave a step to the side as he did so. He managed to get out a “hey!” before one of my bullets hit at the base of his neck and sprayed red mist on the white wall behind him. I was still advancing at them. The first man was not dead, just sagging down against the wall in silence. A third bullet put him out of his misery.
The cry from the second man would probably not be enough to alert the men inside the conference room—but maybe the man on the opposite stair
