I run, crouching behind the boxes seconds before the shots start. I don’t know if they’re firing back or if the bullets are all his. All I know is, they don’t stop.
I clutch the handle of my own gun, flipping the safety off and keeping it aimed at the floor. Silently recite the basic instructions Lev taught me. I listened carefully yesterday, yet I only hit one potato. And I had no fucking clue we’d end up in a shoot-out the next day.
I’m terrified I’m about to die.
I’m even more scared I might see Lev get shot. He doesn’t have backup here. All he has is me—because he’s protecting me.
I inch left, peering around one edge of the bottom box. There are three men on the floor now. Lev is on the opposite side of the room, repeatedly shooting at the doorway. A shot is returned, and Lev ducks before firing back again.
I can see the man who is aiming at him. He’s standing just inside the doorway, protected by the angle. He’s turned away, talking to someone farther down the hallway, gun held loosely in his left hand.
He hasn’t seen me, but he will. Or Lev will run out of ammunition since he’s firing more and already shot three people. I have seconds, maybe less, to make a decision.
Grip, stance, aim, and trigger.
I’m not adrift or drowning. I have the tools to swim. The ability to fight.
My first shot hits him in the stomach. I watch his body jolt from the impact. His head seems to turn left in slow motion. His gun is still in his hand. I fire again. He falls forward, not moving. Another man emerges, reaching for the dropped gun.
Lev fires before I have to decide whether to aim. One neat, clean hole in the forehead. The man I shot is bleeding messily, but he’s not moving.
I think he’s dead. Which means …
I killed someone.
I stare at the body, those three words slamming into me over and over again. Taking my breath away with their devastating impact each time.
I hear my name, but it’s muffled. I’m underwater, and everything else is distant.
Lev appears directly in front of me, blocking my view of the rest of the room. All I can see is the black button-down he’s worn all day. He reaches out slowly, tilting my chin up until I’m forced to meet his anxious gaze.
I flinch at the warm contact, but I don’t pull away from his touch.
“Are you okay?” His tone is low. Urgent.
“I-I don’t know,” I answer honestly.
I don’t know if I am okay; I don’t know if Ishouldbe okay. Someone is no longer alive because of me. Someone who was born and breathed and existed … until he didn’t. I don’t know his name or if he had a family.
He was armed. He was shooting at Lev. He would have shot at me, too, if he’d known I was hiding.
I don’t regret firing, but there’s no relief that I did. I feel empty.
His thumb sweeps along my jawline once before his hand drops. “It gets easier.”
I’m not sure if he means killing or living with the knowledge you’ve killed someone.
I don’t ask.
Or mention that I wouldn’t have pulled the trigger if that man had shot at anyone else.
MAKE IT A DOUBLE
Carina hasn’t said a single word since we left Seamus’s bar.
And I don’t know what to say.
My first kill wasn’t planned. But it was controlled. Celebrated. I had known it would happen one day, so it was almost a relief to have that initiation over with.
