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Another nervous swallow, sweat starts to seep from the space between your pistol grip and palm. Gorchakov stares you down but eventually relents, nodding his head as he sweeps his barrel over the small group.
"You heard the man. Back up, away from the table, now let's go. Get down on your knees and keep your hands interlocked behind your heads, make one wrong move and I'll waste you. I swear." He follows them as the lumber backwards, various whispered groans of protest are ignored as they get into position on the far wall.
"I'll be right back." You mutter and start to turn.
"Hold up." Gorchakov calls, you turn and he looks at you from behind the table. Your heart freezes. "Call that back up you wanted too, tell em to make it snappy."
"Will do." You get out breathlessly before turning for the stairs once more.
First step.
The sound of something heavy sliding on the plastic table top.
Second step.
A faint click.
Third step.
Agony. Burning. Choking.
The world around you explodes. Bright flashes of orange and red. A slow moving mist of your own blood spreads out before you, your legs turning to gel, and your knees slam into the floor as you watch dust and bits of stone drop from the wall where a series of small holes have appeared. You fall forward onto your chest as your gun slips from your hands. Muted voices scream and shout but it's all so far away now. You try to take a breath in but no air comes, you try to speak but all that comes out is a strangled gurgle and a surge of hot metallic blood. All thoughts leave your mind except for survival.
You extend an arm and dig your nails into the rough concrete, pulling as hard as you can you manage to move a few inches, the pain is unbearable and even though you had hardly moved your exertion demanded fresh air. Your lungs twitch and spasm as you begin to choke on your own blood, the burning pain seeping from your chest all the way up your throat. Your hearing slowly returns, dimmed, as a shadow looms over you. You feel a rough hand grasp your vest and flip you onto your back, a movement that only serves to make your drowning and spluttering all the worse. Staring down at you is Gorchakov, his face a mixture of pity and disgust, he speaks but his voice sounds miles away.
"I wish you had just kept your mouth shut and kept the ring." He speaks as his free hand rummages through your pockets.
You extend a bloodied hand and grasp at Gorchakov's shirt, leaving smears of fresh red, he doesn't even seem to notice as he pulls the ring box from your pocket. He holds it up and rattles it lightly.
"I'll make sure Mary gets this, pal. Sorry it had to shake out like this."
You gag and splutter trying to force out the words.
"..king...kill..."
He shakes his head and stands, saying nothing else.
