He hears the shot a second after it happens and he flinches without thinking, remembering the kid on the floor, remembering that he hadn't confirmed that he was unarmed, and he's suddenly sure that he must be dead. Dead here in this hellhole, and he'll never see Tom or Neil or his little girls again.
But then he blinks and there's nothing where the kid had been, and Tom there with his gun raised and an awful look in his eyes.
He feels a flash of cold pity and then equally cold gratitude, and he nods shortly. "Thanks." And he turns his back on that awful look and lifts his own gun, sliding down into the dark.
The floor feels slick, grimy, and the room is vast and shadowy. He can see a dim shape far ahead, half hidden behind a stack of crates, and he takes his own cover. There's no way to know for sure what's down here.
"He's worth fifty of you, you piece of shit," he hisses. "You know who I am? You know what I can do. You let him go now or you'll beg me to end it fuckin' hours before I do."
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But then he blinks and there's nothing where the kid had been, and Tom there with his gun raised and an awful look in his eyes.
He feels a flash of cold pity and then equally cold gratitude, and he nods shortly. "Thanks." And he turns his back on that awful look and lifts his own gun, sliding down into the dark.
The floor feels slick, grimy, and the room is vast and shadowy. He can see a dim shape far ahead, half hidden behind a stack of crates, and he takes his own cover. There's no way to know for sure what's down here.
"He's worth fifty of you, you piece of shit," he hisses. "You know who I am? You know what I can do. You let him go now or you'll beg me to end it fuckin' hours before I do."