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Right as I ready up again, one guy comes barreling around the corner. He’s dead before he even spots me, a nice little hole right between his brows.

He was an ugly motherfucker anyway. World will do just fine without him.

Before his body can topple over, I grip him by the collar of his shirt and bring him in close. Wincing at the bad breath emanating from the rotting hole in his face, I step out of the hallway, using the dead man as a shield against the flying bullets still hurdling my way.

The dead body takes a few hits while I fire off two single shots. Two more bodies go down, and I step back inside the hallway, pushing away the bloodied man who’s now riddled with bullets.

His head smacks off the concrete floor with a sickening thud.

I used his body as a shield for five seconds, but I still got lucky. It’s not like the movies. Bullets can easily fly through bodies. Entry and exit point. Just to enter right back into my body.

I don’t use other people for shields unless I have to, and it’s only for a few seconds at a time.

A chorus of noises arise in the warehouse in the form of terrified screams from the girls, shouts of panic from the men, orders to “kill the puta,” and yells of outrage for the girls to stop crying.

There are still six men left, and I can feel the panic crawling off them.

“Come out, with your hands raised and gun on the floor, or I’ll start killing these bitches!” one of them shouts, his voice echoing.

I sigh, roll my shoulders, and do as he says. I drop my gun on the floor and step out with my hands raised. The six men stand before the group of girls, keeping them safe from stray bullets. The knowledge that they’re only doing so to ensure the product isn’t damaged rather than giving a shit about hurting them burns hot in my chest.

“Come on, the fun was just starting,” I croon, a smirk pulling my lips up.

“Shut up!” the man spits. He’

s a Mexican man with a shaved head, tattoos covering him from head to toe, and wearing clothes that look like they haven’t been washed in weeks.

And look at that—quite the gnarly scar on his forehead.

Goddamn. It looks like someone took a bread knife and just sawed at his head.

This must be dear ol’ Fernando. Just who I was looking for.

Fernando’s eyes are wide with fear and based on the crack pipes sitting on the table behind him, I’d say most of them are high off their rockers.

Not so good.

They get trigger-happy when they’re tripping on whatever substance they injected into their tired veins.

And I got six of those happy fingers on triggers.

“Who sent you?” Fernando shouts, emphasizing his question with a wave of his gun.

“I sent myself,” I answer dryly.

Why do they always think I’m working for someone else? I don’t work for anyone but myself.

The man holds his gun above my head and shoots it off, attempting to scare me.

See?

Trigger happy.

I don’t flinch. Instead, I take the time to look at my surroundings better. There’s a table to my left, littered with guns, ashtrays, empty beer cans, and another crack pipe.

Perfect.

“Don’t make me ask again, cabrón,” the man says, his finger caressing the trigger.