We grab the silencers, screw them on, and head out.
We walk around the other booths, nobody minding us, everyone having their fun in the darkness of this place. As we step into the booth we’re about to empty, the guys lift their heads from whatever they were looking at, surprised.
Lines of coke are on the table along with paper bills for the dancers, some of the bills rolled into tight tubes. Just as we lift our guns, aimed at the target, ready to pull the trigger, a girl climbs out from under the table, our target gripping her hair and lifting her in front of him, shielding himself with her body.
My gun is now pointed right at her.
Fuck, we didn’t see her before. They had her on her knees under the table.
Shit.
Adrien gives me a quick panicked look. One of the other guys lifts his hands, surrendering, trying to slowly get out of the booth. He probably doesn’t have a gun or is too high to think.
The second man takes out his gun and points it at us.
Everything happening in a matter of milliseconds. Despite the girl, we have a clear shot on both of the men, taking it.
It’s a no brainer.
Just like that, the main target takes a bullet right between his eyebrows from me, and the other guy takes the same hit from Adrien.
But there was a third shot.
The girl is falling to her knees, blood stains starting to leak through her blue thigh dress.
No.
What?
No, no, no.
The guy had to shoot her at the same time we took our shot.
Why the fuck did he do that?
Adrien runs to her, catching her right before she falls, her body completely limp and the blood leaking so fast it’s clear she’s not going to make it. She was shot from behind, right in the chest.
I stand there, frozen, the wheels in my head spinning, burning, thinking about what we should’ve done differently, going through all the scenarios I played out in my head.
This fucked up situation was in none of them.
Why the hell did he shoot her? It doesn’t make any sense.
We’re always so careful about bystanders.
Always.
What went wrong?
I don’t get it. My eyes fly wide. She lies there like a discarded doll, her blue dress darkening with blood. Sound compresses, then thins—music, laughter, the bass—until all I hear is the wet, obscene bloom pooling under her.
Adrien’s sobs cut through me like glass.
“You’re okay, you’re okay, you’re fine,” he hyperventilates while holding her, shaking her body in his arms.
She’s dead.
“Fuck, we need to—” Adrien is whispering, whimpering.
