Salt in the Wound

March 29, 2010

The extra pain with the Hitter’s last kick? Another broken another rib. He takes a step back and shrugs out of his coat and goes for the case where I’m sure he’s packing all manner of nasty treats. Three ribs and a dislocated shoulder. I consider the pain, then push it aside and drag myself back to my feet. The light plays off of the dead girl’s blood and that, I can’t push aside.

The Hitter turns back on me and his surprise is spelled out in his eyes. And in the half second delay that puts my fist solidly into one of his kidney’s before he can react. He howls his pain. He likes to take people quietly. Never giving them a chance to struggle. I stomp into his kneecap and he goes down. He’s got some self preservation instinct though. Clinging to his case. Trying to get a weapon.

I let him think he might make it. Then I put a round in each of his shoulders and one in his stomach. Jackass never bothered checking for my back-up piece. I take a moment to kick aside the case, then cross to the girl. She was gone before I could have gotten here.

My body insistently reminds me of the damage done to it and I slump carefully to the floor with a soft hiss of breath. I’ll live. I always do. If I could save them all, maybe that wouldn’t be so hard.

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