“We’re fucked, Arden!”
“No, we aren’t.” I calmly place the Barrett up to my shoulder and aim through the dust and debris. I fire three times before I hear Zach’s scream.
“Man down!” I cry into my radio. “Marshall’s been hit!”
There is nothing but the dust falling all around me and the sound of gunfire in my ears. Zach’s screams diminish as voices through my radio crackle incoherently.
My head pounds along with my heart as I awaken. My throat is dry, and I can’t breathe. It’s as if my whole chest has seized up on me, and I feel the panic as it takes over my body. It starts with my feet, travels up my legs, embeds itself in my gut, and then finally escapes through my mouth as I gasp and choke. I’m shaking as I look around the room.
The bed is empty.
I want to call out for…for…I don’t know her name. The light isn’t on in the bathroom, and the door is still standing open, so she isn’t in there. Did she leave? Did she fucking walk out on me?
I register the sound of people talking from the other room. A man speaks slowly, and then a woman answers him at a faster pace. They’re arguing, but I can’t hear the words.
She betrayed me.
How? Why?
It doesn’t matter. I’m too well known in Chicago, and there are plenty of people willing to offer someone money in exchange for information about me. It isn’t the first time I’ve been screwed over by hired pussy.
I roll to my side, grab the Beretta from the nightstand drawer, and I check the indicator to make sure there’s a bullet in the chamber. It’s fully loaded and ready for whoever is in my apartment. I climb off the backside of the bed and make my way silently to the bedroom door.
When I hear the sound of gunfire, I can feel my muscles tighten in alert. I grip the weapon tighter as my heart begins to pound. Another shot. Another.
The sound isn’t right. It registers in the back of my head, but I can’t quite make sense of it at first. I realize the sound is too quiet—too muffled.
Silencer?
No—it’s not like that, either.
Still tensed, I take a quick peek out the door. There are no lights on in the living room, but there is a familiar, eerie glow.
The television.
I close my eyes for a moment, take a shaky breath, and rub my head to clear it. The voices argue a little louder, and I recognize the man’s as Keanu Reeves.
Despite the realization, I can’t seem to shake the feeling of being on high alert. The adrenaline continues to flow through my system as more gunfire erupts from the TV’s speakers. With the gun still in my hand, I walk out into the living room.
She’s there on the couch, wearing nothing but her bra and panties—bright red, just like her skirt, lips, and gum. On the far side of the room, flickering in the light from the television, there’s a vision of an Iraqi teenager. He raises his hand and points his finger at me as if he’s holding a gun.
Fucking hallucinations. The less sleep I have, the more this kid appears around me. I ignore him and look back to the whore on the couch.
“What the fuck are you doing!”
The hooker startles and nearly falls off the couch. She sees the gun aimed at her head, screams, and scrambles off the furniture onto the floor and around the edge of the coffee table.
She’s screaming, crying, and I honestly don’t know if I’m going to shoot her or not.
“One thing I wanted—one thing!” I’m still shaking, and I can’t seem to stop. “Just fucking sleep with me!”
I stalk a few steps closer to her, and she pushes herself back with her heels.
“Don’t fucking move!” She heeds the warning in my voice and stops.
“I’m sorry! I just wanted to watch a movie!”
“Turn that shit off!” I motion with the gun toward the television, and she grapples for the remote, rapidly presses buttons, and the screen goes black.