When the autopsy was done, they’d say Seabass had an ischemic stroke, brought on by an arterial embolism from a bullet fragment that rode his carotid artery and caused a blood clot in his brain. But right now, his only hint was his left eyelid starting to droop, making it harder to see.
“Um . . . your boy don’t look so good,” Roddy said, Seabass already off balance, stumbling sideways, bumping into one of the metal cages, which rattled as he hit it. He was still trying to stay on his feet as momentum took hold.
“Sebby . . . ?” Reagan whispered.
Seabass’s arm went numb; his eyes rolled back in his head. He was in free fall now, like some oversized opponent in a Rocky movie, heading face-first toward the canvas.
“Sebby!”
Seabass hit forehead first, with a sickening crunch that broke his nose and knocked out his mouth guard. Ribbons of blood sprayed across the white floor. But the only thing that Zig, that Roddy, that all of them were paying attention to was his— “Gun!” Roddy shouted.
The pistol skittered across the floor, not far from Seabass’s facedown body. Zig and Roddy both dove for it.
“Don’t—！” Reagan warned, turning toward them, raising her own gun.
Zig and Roddy were already in midleap, arms outstretched like they were both diving for an out-of-bounds ball as they reached for the gun.
Roddy got his hand on it first. It was like grabbing a frozen pipe, his palm still covered in the blood from where he’d been holding his stomach. It made the gun slippery as he grabbed the barrel, then the grip, fighting to right it. He was still on the ground. The wound in his gut was on fire as he climbed to his feet. His hand wouldn’t stop shaking. He lifted the gun . . .
. . . and pointed it toward Zig’s face.
“I knew it—toldja he was nuts,” Elijah said.
“R-Roddy . . . what’re you doing?” Zig asked.
Roddy didn’t answer, his hand shaking more than ever.
“Roddy, please—whatever you think this will get you—”
Roddy squeezed the trigger. Zig closed his eyes. As the shot exploded, his final thought wasn’t of his daughter. It was of Charmaine, his ex-wife. Not on their wedding day or in some gauzy old memory. How she looked now, seasoned by life, the crow’s-feet, the elevens, all of it. God, she was beautiful.
The shot was a deafening crack, reverberating off the metal walls.
To his surprise, Zig felt nothing. He opened his eyes, looking down, patting his own chest. It took him a moment to realize he hadn’t been hit. Instead, the bullet . . . Zig glanced over his shoulder. Roddy was . . . he was aiming at something . . . No. Someone.
Behind Zig, Reagan was standing there, head tilted, a look of puzzlement on her face. She was holding her own neck, like she’d slapped a mosquito, blood seeping through her fingers.
Roddy had shot her in the throat.
She was still in shock, trying to breathe, though all she could muster was a hollow wheeze, the sucking sound from an empty drain.
“I’m gonna shoot your boyfriend next,” Roddy said, aiming the gun at Reagan’s chest and again pulling the— Roddy never saw the massive forearm coming. Seabass was still on the ground as he swiped at Roddy’s ankles, knocking his legs out from under him. As Roddy crashed to the floor, Seabass was all over him, flush with rage and adrenaline, swinging wildly, his meaty paw knocking the gun from Roddy’s hands.
Don’t touch her, Seabass yelled in his head, though nothing came out. He was white as bone, his lips blue, his vision a blur. Yet as he climbed onto Roddy’s chest, he still knew how to do damage.
Bunching his fingers like a spear, he stabbed wildly at Roddy’s belly, searching for— There. He jammed his fingertips into Roddy’s bloody wound.