Pink Walls

Day Four [Part IV]

"Found you."

I was dragged back by a fistful of my hair. Danny reached out to grab me almost immediately. His fingers locked around my right wrist then slipped off, taking my blood-slick glove with him.

I felt the blade of a knife settle at the skin of my neck and in the next moment I saw one of us dying.

Danny was too focused on me to notice the person stalking towards him and I couldn't warn him without getting us killed.

In less than ten seconds I needed to make a choice: save Daniel or save myself.

The gun felt incredibly heavy in my hand, the knife felt impossible sharp against my throat, but they both were capable of killing.

Slowly—and out VI's line of sight—my right hand inched towards the knife.

Seven breaths.

My fingers clamped around their wrist, nails digging deep into their skin. With all the strength I could muster, I pulled the arm away from my neck and in that second, raised my other hand and pulled the trigger.

The hitman went down.

Hot blood splashed on my face. I felt it drip down my jacket, trickle down my jaw and fingers. . .

Daniel screamed.

I fell.

My vision blurred for a second, maybe more. I stared at the ceiling, counting my slowing breaths—none deep enough to help my battered rips. I felt fire spread from the tips of my fingers all the way up my arms before burrowing into my chest and setting my lungs ablaze. My thoughts exploded into nothingness, my awareness consumed by a ball of pain. I tasted blood on my tongue where I had bit down to silence a scream; the death in the winter air was back.

The lights above me disappeared, brightened, vanished, lulled. Sometimes I saw everything and sometimes nothing. Gunshots echoed all around me, too loud and here to be another convoluted memory.

I blinked.

Someone stood over me.

Danny.

I stared into his eyes.

He was crying.

"Hey, hey. Mr Bodyguard, you have to get up."

Wish I could, kid.

"Don't...die."

"Leave." I managed to lift my hand, but instead of pushing him away like I intended, my fingers did nothing but leave streaks of red across his wet cheek before everything went dark again.

Maybe it was a second later, maybe it was an hour, but when I opened my eyes again I was still on the floor.

I struggled to get to my feet, my hand reaching up to brace my left shoulder. I wasn't on enough painkillers not to feel the burn of my new wound. I could barely feel anything other than the pain. It was strange, the stabbing ache in my arm versus the numbness of everything else.

As I staggered forward, shell casings rolled noisily between my feet, bouncing against broken glass and themselves when my shoes collided with them.

Silently, I took in the carnage around me. The parking garage had transformed into a battlefield, with bullet holes in concrete and massive dents in metal panelling of a handful of the cars.

The wall directly in front of me took the most damage, decorated with deep gouges dripping with blood. And positioned in front of it all was the hitman I had shot before passing out