Shay
B
eing shot was agony. White-hot and furious, the bullet tore through my abdomen, leaving a trail of flames in its wake. The crowd of enforcers, the music, the lights, the screams—it all began to blur as my body processed what was happening to me in the only way it could: shock. I felt the impact, though, when my shoulder plowed into the floor.
Another time, I would have rolled, caught myself—anything to lessen the impact. But not this time. This time, I hit and bounced, my only saving grace the fact that it was my shoulder and not my face that took the brunt of my fall.
All my air was gone, the wind knocked straight out of me as I stared up at the ceiling, gaping like a fish as the fluorescent lights blurred into a too-bright mass overhead.
Something warm and wet touched my face
