Coming to some semblance of lucidity, I unfolded my arms—only then realizing that I’d wrapped them around my skull at the last moment. It meant that my earlier image of watching my twitching fingers couldn’t have been true, but everything about the entire situation felt more than surreal. Pressing an elbow to the bed frame, I pushed against it. The bed wouldn’t move. Blinking through dust, I saw that one of the legs had been thrust into the wall, skewering deep into the plaster covering. It had missed my body by inches.

It was a Herculean task to get a knee under me and press my shoulder against the bed and move it away. As the bed frame scraped across the floor, I slipped and went down hard on my damaged hand. I cringed, but pushed up again. Part of me wanted to give in, to lie down and succumb to the bliss of unconsciousness. Another part screamed at me to get my arse in gear. The screamer was the most adamant. Even if Rickard was dead, the one who’d thrown the grenade at us wasn’t. Any second now, he’d be coming back to make sure the explosion had done its work.

The room was full of smoke and dust and dripping stuff. I didn’t like to think about what was smeared on the ceiling and walls, or what the crimson chunks were that had been scattered to the four corners of the room. No way possible to count if those steaming entrails belonged to three corpses or four.

Staggering, I made it around the edge of the bed. First I looked to the door but I could detect no movement through the acrid smoke, so I looked at the bed instead. The mattress had been shredded. Clumps of foam erupted from ragged holes where shrapnel had torn into it. The metal headboard had been ripped loose and was a mangled wreck a few feet away. A dark banner floated on the unnatural breeze as displaced air began forcing its way back into the room. It took a moment or so to realize that it was a lock of Jimena Grajales’s hair. I closed my eyes against the sight and turned away.

My ears were pulsating.

Gunfire crackled from somewhere, but my senses were so rattled that I couldn’t get a fix on the direction. I placed my palms on my ears, pressing and releasing, attempting to pop my eardrums into a more natural configuration. When I withdrew, the palm of my left hand was spotted with blood. I didn’t think that my eardrum was ruptured: the blood was more likely from a superficial wound on my face. Who knew?

I’d more important things to worry about.

I gave myself a once-over. I hurt everywhere, but apart from my throbbing hand, nothing seemed to have been broken or torn loose. So I bent in search of a weapon.