Commotion.
A hand reaching out for me, grabbing hold of my hair. The Skinner’s hand. He’s screaming something indiscernible from his cut-up mouth. I’m beating the flesh-masked man back with one hand and, with the other, grabbing at his face. The face rips away from his head leaving me holding Cuther’s face and scalp in my hand. I scream and toss it away. Then, bending at the knees, I reach for something that’s dropped to the floor near my foot.
The semi-automatic.
When I find it, I wrap both hands around the grip, aim in Skinner’s direction, slip my index finger inside the guard, pull the trigger. Through the split-second flash of brilliant, explosive light, I see his wide-eyed face taken entirely by surprise, telling me the bullet found its home.
But then he immediately runs off. S
