With a smirk, Bowtie pulls the trigger.
The round punches into Jammy’s back, and they sprawl forward, crashing into the heavy door. Then they go limp. Red blossoms on their back, under their bright white top.
“Jammy!”
My scream is a stranger’s voice to my ears. The only reason I know I produced it is the ragged pain in my throat. It matches the one in my chest.
Scarface walks toward me, but I’m only distantly aware as I scream Jammy’s name over and over. They don’t get up, don’t so much as stir.
Like Cue, they’re gone.
Jammy’s name becomes wordless shrieks of grief until Scarface kicks me in the face, on the side Marcel slapped earlier, the side Jammy worked so hard to cover up so I could get through the night.
I taste blood in my mouth this time, and the pain reverberates throughout my skull. Gasping, I stare up at Scarface.
“Sorry, gorgeous,” he says, sounding anything but. Then he points the rifle at the middle of my chest from just a couple of feet away.
My body becomes leaden.
Scarface shrugs. “Orders are orders.”
Then he squeezes the trigger.
A nuclear blast goes off in my chest. Warm blood—my blood—splatters my face.
Everything goes black.