Good, fear will make him sloppy, easier to defeat.
I take in and blow out a couple of deep breaths, and then I move. I lunge and kick in the door. It flies open all the way.
Nelson pulls his gun up, but I’m quicker. There’s a loud bang and a flash of light from the end of my barrel.
Nelson jerks like a puppet on a string, knocked back by the force. His mouth forms a perfect O of surprise. He clutches his chest, and for a split second I wait for him to yell, to curse, to raise his paint-covered hand in surrender.
But he doesn’t.
He stumbles against the wall, leaving a long red smear as he slides down. And that’s when I realize—
It’s not paint.
It’s blood.
Real, dark, bright-red blood.
“Carrson?” Nelson whispers, while his eyes roll wildly. He says my name like he’s confused. Scared. Betrayed. Like he doesn’t understand how I could be the one to pull the trigger.
I don’t understand either.
I don’t understand anything.
What is happening?
Why is there so much blood?
Why did he just stop moving?
The gun drops from my hand with a dullthump. I rush to his side, skidding to my knees. “Nelson?” My voice is high, raw. “Nelson!” The crack of the gunshot still echoes in my skull.
I press my hands to his chest. Blood gushes between my fingers, hot and sticky. The scent of it hits me, sharp and bright. The smell of old pennies or of red dirt rich in iron. He’s bleeding, and I’ve got to stop it. I look around frantically, then rip off my own shirt. I make it into a ball and press it to his chest.
His chest that no longer rises with breath. I place my finger under his jaw, feel for a pulse that no longer beats.
It’s too late. I’m too late.
Nelson is dead.
I killed him.
I killed him.
It repeats over and over in my head. I’ve murdered before. All those missions my father sends me on, the ones in the desert, in the sand, but never like this. Not someone I know. Not someone who knows me. I stare down at his body in shock. My mind is heavy, dizzy, overwhelmed by what just happened. The room closes in, claustrophobic. Everything, the lap of water along the shoreline, the rush of my heartbeat, my ragged breathing, is too quiet and yet too loud all at once.
Hands shaking, I stand and take a step back. I walk back to the gun on the floor and pick it up. I turn it in my palm, praying for something to make sense, but a quick inspection shows that it’s real.
A real gun. A real death.
I killed him.
How could it have happened?
My father’s words in the ballroom come back to me.
“Trust no one.”
Looks like he just taught me that lesson the hard way.
