Spin.
Point.
Click.
Jeremy cries out, flinching hard.
Another spin. I point it at the older man this time.
Click.
Still blank.
“Fuck—please, please stop—” Jeremy is crying now, his nose running, his voice shrill with real terror. “I don’t even know who you are!”
I cock my head, as if considering that.
“Good,” I say.
Spin.
Point.
Jeremy again.
Click.
“Shit—”
Spin.
I aim at the older man.
And pull.
BANG.
The shot blasts through his skull. And his body jerks back in the chair lifelessly, blood exploding in a wet spray that paints the side of Jeremy’s face, neck, and shirt. His scream rips through the silence, raw and guttural, like something torn from his soul. He thrashes against the restraints, choking on the stench, sobbing so hard I think he might pass out.
I stand with a sigh, setting the revolver down on the table
Then I walk over to Jeremy and lean in, my face close to his.
I tap his cheek twice.
He flinches.
“Lucky bastard,” I murmur. “Be ready for another round when I return.”
I rise and turn towards Greg
“Feed him,” I say. “Keep him breathing. I’m not done with him yet.”
I don’t wait for a response. I walk out, the echo of my boots swallowing the rest of his screams.
***
I arrive at my penthouse just after six pm, then head upstairs, taking off my black denim jacket and my shirt. The smell of blood clings to me — I’ve always hated the smell of it.
