12 Kilos
Sprayed ain't prayed.
"Lucan didn’t cough, or wheeze, or waver in the least. His hand was steady and his finger found the trigger deftly. A face that was only moments ago racked with sickness and unease had now cleared thanks to newfound purpose, even as Lucan tested his voice and found it lacking.
Garrett watched as Lucan ran a bloated tongue over his teeth and found the spit he needed to shout the name, “Pete!”
Spoken by Lucan, the name sounded like an eternal curse.
Pete turned, dropping the pack he had been so busy with as he spied the giant revolver. “Oh, what’s this? You going to shoot me with an empty gun, boss? I tell you what: if you’re strong enough to put on a show for your little lover there, then put on a show for us, stand up and lead us out of this shit-hole.”
Pete pointed a finger at Garrett and shouted, “Here’s the thing, though: he stays!”
Lucan kept the gun leveled at Pete’s head, never faltering as he proceeded to speak clearly and plainly. The change in demeanor and the steel that Garrett heard in the big man’s voice then was a lesson that he would never forget.
“You only know this gun is empty because I told you it was, Pete. You only ever knew when to eat or wipe your ass because I told you to. Thing is: I lie, Pete. I lie with every breath I take. You willing to play five-card with me now?”
To his credit Pete never wavered either. He kept still but he never showed the fear that kept the hair on his arms sticking up. “I’m getting out of here, boss—right now! That’s all I know.”
“Damn right you are.” That’s all Lucan said before he pulled the trigger.
The blast of the .357 forced Garrett’s eyes to close, even as the sound tore through his head and had him pressing his feeble hands over his ears, too little, too late. By the time Garrett had regained his senses and looked up, he only saw the aftermath. Pete was laid out on the floor in front of the two cells, facedown. Little bits of brain and skull were sprayed across the ceiling and the far wall."