"Ten+++": Unabsolved

Writer's note: This one just sort of came to me. I originally intended to make the conclusion of this chapter much bloodier/graphic, but it might work understated like this. Let me know what you think.

This takes place near the end of the story, I think, where Spears has finally figured out who is behind the drug cartel now and has worked to provoke a confrontation. --C.A.

My pulse is in my ears. That and my ragged breathing are all I can hear. Bulldog is still up ahead. He must be part Kenyan, because I don’t know how else he can run this far, this fast. Maybe stimulants. I strain to keep up and the stitches from my gunshot wound open.

He cuts into an alley and I follow. But, he’s gone. A rusty side door slams shut but I’m there with all my weight behind it. Someone cries out as the door rips open their hand as they are trying to latch it. Someone small and not Muerto. I don’t care. Punch. Elbow. Grab the head and drive it to my knee.

My eyes adjust. My victim appears to be a teenage girl. I’m a daisy if she tips in at over a buck-ten. Her face looks like a bag of smashed assholes now. Shit.

I stop thinking about Bulldog. I want to say something to this girl, but I’m still sucking air. Besides, what should I say? “Sorry”? “Your nose probably isn’t that broken”? I try to reach for her but of course, she recoils. I put my hands up. She’s not crying, at least.

Bulldog's voice comes from up above.

“Bitch! Kill him!”

I look up to Bulldog, then back at the girl. The blood’s still flowing from her nose, but she’s not holding it. No, her grip is firmly around a pistol that is absurdly big in her tiny hand. I doubt her second shot will hit. Too much recoil from the first. But at this range, she’ll only need one.

The gun’s retort deafens me, but I still hear her scream. I snap her trigger finger as I pry the gun barrel back toward her. Now, nothing but pain. My pain.

She’s smart. She kicks me in the balls instead of resisting me. The butt of the pistol connects with my temple, but there’s not a lot behind it, considering I just broke that manicured, petite hand. The pistol falls away, and she gropes for it with her left, trying to reorient her aim. She’s less experienced with a gun than I am. Which is why I have mine aimed first, right at her center of mass.

A man screams, but I don’t think it’s Bulldog. As soon as she falls, I’m on her, trying to stop the blood that’s pumping on to her white, tied-up belly shirt. A cheap gold necklace reads “Bebe”. My bloody hands try to dial my cell phone. Her dark eyes are wide. Pretty eyes, usually. They look at me, at the stairs where Bulldog isn’t, back at me, at the ceiling. I tell her no, not to let go. Help is on the way. I hold her until the sirens scream near us. All she wants right now is for me to hold her, to keep her warm for a few seconds more, but I’m gone before the medics arrive.

I’ll kill Bulldog for this, and for other things, too. But it’s not him I really want to punish now. Of all the things I’ve done since killing Colón, this is the only one I can’t forgive.