The sound of the gunshot is a slap to my senses.
Like a physical blow so hard my chest caves in from the impact.
My mother's head jerks to the left.
Red gore spouts onto the floor.
And her body follows it, buckling, crumpling.
She thuds against the floor, and a pool of rapidly growing red spreads around her, racing down channels of grout, spiderwebbing over the tile.
In my peripheral, I know that Ambrose is tipping his head back, audibly releasing a breath with a sort of reverence. Like this is even better than he imagined it would be. But I can't take my eyes off her.
The scissors slip from my fingers, clanging against the floor.
Her oceanic eyes stare somewhere past me. Through me. Sightless.Lifeless.
I want off this ride.
I wantoffthis fucking ride.
Ambrose plucks a handkerchief from his pocket and wipes his prints from the gun's grip, handing the weapon back to Coyote.
I don't remember going for the sidearm of the dead man behind me, but one second I'm frozen in time, and the next I feel the power of it in my hand.
"Down!" Coyote shouts, charging, and I fire before he's able to stop me. The impact of his shoulder against my sternum knocks the gun from my hand and the air from my lungs.
I see stars, and I don't know which way is up as he rips my shoulder from its socket in an attempt to bring me under control. The sickening sensation of it sitting somewhere it shouldn't is secondary to my visceral need to get my eyes on Ambrose.
A growl rips from my throat when I see him unfurling back to his full height, his hand pressed to his right ear, blood soaking between his fingers.
I scream my fury.
Sofuckingclose.
I'm rewarded for my struggle to get free with a fist twisted into my hair, forcing me to my knees. I claw at Coyote's gloved hand with the one I can still use, but he doesn't let up.
Ambrose's cutting stare lifts to me as he lowers his bloody hand, flicking droplets of crimson onto the floor before wadding up his handkerchief and pressing it to his ear to stop the bleeding.
He steps over the body of his wife like she's nothing, his stare unwaveringly fixed on me as he speaks.
"Have you heard from your team?"
The question is meant for Coyote, who winds his grip on my hair impossibly tighter to hold me still while he calls in for his team.
"Brava Team, come in."
There's a beat of silence, and I yank futilely against his grip, hair pulling from my scalp.
"Nothing, sir."
And I realize what that means.
Despite the soul-deep pit of despair opening up in my stomach, something rises in my throat.
It might be a scream. It might be a sob.
It comes out as laughter.
