55
Did I shoot? No—no kick from my machine pistol.
But I’m so tense, the report almost makes me squeeze my own trigger.
The service yard looks like it’s been ripped from an especially pretentious post-apocalyptic art film. Detroit’s city lights cast a gray haze over the sky. Abandoned boxcars and shipping containers loom in the dark. The ground vibrates with the force of the locomotive’s idling engine and its trailing boxcars form a glittering wall in the night. Everything stinks of old oil and decades of smoke.
Amidst this black and white tableau of rust, four pole lights cast pools of incongruous color. Nancy Drew’s lying on her back in one of them, the no-necked thug standing over her with an MP-7 like mine.
And the thug’s cheek fountains in a spray of red.
For half a second, nobo
