Capital City Chronicles: The Island by S.E. Goss

that trigger, the Revival has already been approved. GCI will just get someone else to lead it,” he pleaded.
    I spoke again, this time far above a whisper,
    “But it will not be you .”
    “Sophia-”
    The sound of my name somehow startled me, and I jerked the trigger. The gunshot reverberated through the penthouse like a loud slap; not at all the short wispy pop I had expected. I took an involuntary step back and lowered the smoking pistol. Somewhere far away the shell casing clinked across a table.
    Whitten still stared up at me, his eyes now wide with shock.
    His mouth hung open in disbelief. 
    After a moment, thick red-black fluid began to pour at once from his nose, his mouth and the bubbling mess of his throat. The left side of his jaw jutted outward from his face, bobbing as he tried to breath through the blood. His hands tightened into claws as he reached for his face. His eyes pleaded with me, begged me to undo the fatal act. A part of my mind noted that next to him, the cigar still burned, lit sometime before I had come into his life and ended it. At the bottom of the glass of scotch, amid a swirling red cloud, lay a tooth. It had a gold filling.
    I stepped back and watched, wide eyed, as Whitten choked and bubbled. His hands abandoned his throat, and dropped down into his lap. Finally, still staring at me with shocked confusion, he slumped back into the chair. A sharp stench filled the room and I looked down to see a light brown sludge running between his bare legs, down the front of the chair and piling onto the carpet. I tasted the salt on the sides of my tongue for the second time tonight, and had to clap my hand over my mouth to keep from retching.
    And still Whitten stared at me. His body had shut down, the last of the twitches and convulsions faded, but still his eyes seemed awake.
    I squeezed my own eyes shut, and turned away.
    The clutch still lay on the bar, and after I had removed the silencer, I shoved the pistol back into it. On numb legs, I walked to the door. I leaned my head against it with my hand on the door knob, and concentrated on my breath. For a brief moment, I was sure I would faint. In every part of my body I could feel my pulse, pounding through my neck, my armpits, my wrists, even the arches of my feet.
    I heard one of the men outside the door blow his nose. Clearly they hadn’t heard anything, but could they smell the awful stink through the door? What about when I opened it?
    I had already known that they would catch me sooner or later, but now it was here. I had followed through with my plan, perhaps not quite comprehending the reality of it all until now. Even if I made it past the men outside, I was now an assassin, a rebel, and I would be hunted by GCI to the ends of the earth. I would be tortured, interrogated and questioned about rebels I had no knowledge of. Unless I put up a fight. When they came for me, I could fight, and they would kill me quickly. The smell of the dead man behind me reminded me that most deaths weren’t quick or painless or clean.
    I began to cry, silently, and with my face pressed against the door.
    I just wanted it all to be over. I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand, no doubt smearing makeup across my face, took a deep breath, and opened the door.
    The talkative agent, now on my left, raised his eyebrows and looked at me. I forced myself not to slam the door. The other, serious man didn’t move, didn’t bother to even look at me. I started past them when a hand clamped onto my left wrist.
    “That was quick,” he said. I looked from him to the Serious One and back. Finally, after I didn’t speak up, the Serious One turned and looked at me with his granite cold expression. I stammered over my words,
    “I- I’m too old. He was very angry and went to bed. Told me to go back to my harum and bring back a girl myself, l-later, after the speech...” I was on the edge of panic now, hoping I would say just enough to seem believable, and to keep them