You’ve Just Killed a Man
You’ve just killed a man. He’s lying on the carpet and the gun is in your hand, heavy and warm, and there’s a smell in the air like burnt cork. There’s not much blood because he died instantly, from a bullet to the heart, and dead men don’t keep bleeding.
You swallow hard. Your pulse is racing and it’s suddenly hard to breathe. You’re afraid someone heard the shot, because you’re in a hotel room with paper-thin walls. Someone could be dialing 911 at this moment, the cops could bust in and find you if you don’t haul ass out of here. Of course, they’ll find you anyway, this foolproof scheme of yours is bitched up good, but you’re not ready to be caught just yet.