“Wow, talk about a hostile work environment,” I mutter. “Look, if you hold still, this will be over quickly. It’s a minor setback. We can do it.” My eyes catch the blood staining the cement behind him. “Though I do wish you didn’t bleed all over the street. That’s going to be a bitch to clean up.”

His breathing has turned to a heavy pant. Probably from the pain, I guess. “An inconvenience? You’re trying to kill me.”

“Shh …” I glance down the end of the alleyway. “Keep your voice down. I can’t afford to be caught. My sister says I wouldn’t do well in jail.”

“You can’t … What the fuck is happening …”

Considering he was close to losing his head, I can understand his confusion. “Look, I should probably get this over with. I hear it won’t hurt if I shoot you straight in the head. Or was it the chest? Shit, I’m only new at this.” I raise the gun, alternating between which area to shoot as I rack my brain to remember. Given I tried the head last time and it’s hurting a hell of a lot, maybe the chest?

“Wait! Don’t I get last words?”

Shit. He’s right. “How rude of me. Of course. Right. How do we do this? Ah … God?” I give the bleeding man an uneasy smile. “It’s been a while,” I explain. “St. Clare needs, umm … safe passage to … heaven? That doesn’t sound right⁠—”

“What are you doing?”

“I know I’m not a priest, but I’m doing the best I can here.”

“I said last words, not last rites.”

“Oh …” It dawns on me that he wants to be the one to say something. “Go on, then.”

“You know what? Just kill me.”

I perk up. “Can I?”

“No!” he snarls. “Jesus, what is wrong with you?”

“Hey, you’re the one with a gunshot wound, so should you really be asking that question?”

Pain spasms across his face, and when he pulls his hand away, the blood staining it is bright red. It’s still bleeding. A lot. If I was lucky, the wound would finish the job for me, but I’m not lucky, and as each second ticks by, I’m becoming increasingly worried that I won’t finish things either.

I let out a frustrated growl, rubbing the heels of my hands into my eye sockets, careful not to poke myself in the eye with the gun. “Why can’t you be dead already?”

He makes a choking nose. “Am I supposed to apologize for that?”

“It would make me feel at least a little better, if I’m honest.”

“You shot me in the fucking ear!”

“And I already apologized for that.” I pace a few steps away and back again, trying to find that same pump-up speech about puppies and … and …

Shit, now he’s sweating. And looking pale.