I put two rounds in the chest of the one with the cash.
He falls back, money scattering, hundred-dollar bills stained red.
Tor takes the one on the couch—double tap, center mass.
The beer bottle shatters on the floor.
The third one—bathroom guy—goes for a gun on the nightstand.
I shoot him in the knee.
He screams, collapses, clutches at the ruined joint.
Tor is on him in an instant, boot on his chest, gun pressed to his forehead.
"Who's in charge?" Tor demands.
"Fuck you?—"
Tor shoots him in the shoulder.
The scream that follows is inhuman.
Primal.
Music to my fucking ears.
"Who. Is. In. Charge."
"Womack!" the man gasps, tears streaming down his face. "Eddie Womack! He's in Room 8—please, please don't?—"
Tor pulls the trigger.
The begging stops.
The room goes quiet except for the TV, still playing in the background.
Some sitcom.
Laugh track.
Surreal.
I'm already moving to the door.
"Room 8," I say into the radio. "Target is Eddie Womack. Room 8."
Fenrir's voice crackles back. "Copy. Converging now."
We clear the rest of Room 11—bathroom, closet, under the bed.
All clear.
We head back into the night and gunfire echoes from the west side.
Hakon and Ulf are making contact.
More shots from the front.
