*It was him or me.* Eliot moved at a crouch towards where he had seen his assailant fall, staying to the shadows. *Him or me. Keep telling yourself that, Spencer.*
It had been a fucking set-up. Drop off the package, pick up the payment, get dead on his way to the car. Bastard shooting at him probably had been promised the cash for his services. Eliot had been cursing himself since things went south, for allowing himself to get distracted, for wanting out of this godforsaken country so badly he'd been in take-the-money-and-run mode.
The man was slumped against a wall, limbs sprawled out in the awkward angles that telegraphed sudden, irrevocable death, a neat brown circle between the sightless eyes, head tilted at an angle made more extreme by the fact that half of it was gone... well, not gone, but oozing down the wall behind him.
*It was him or me.* Eliot swallowed against rising bile, trying to reconcile this red ruin of a man with the slightest movement of his index finger on a trigger twenty yards away. It wasn't death that bothered him, or even regret that this time, for the first time, he'd dealt it out. What bothered him was the fact that he'd had to shoot to kill. Trying to be clever, to disable or outwit the *other* guy with a gun was fantasy, good for getting himself killed but not much else. Guns were made to kill people. Eliot really didn't like having the choice made for him.
He took out his own weapon, ejecting the magazine, clearing the chamber and carefully wiping it clean with the hem of his shirt before dropping it in the man's lap with a whispered 'sorry'. Eliot knew he might have to kill again, but when the next time came, it wouldn't be a shot in the dark. Eliot Spencer was man enough to look *anyone* in the eye.
After another long moment, he shrugged and moved once again toward the shadows, planning how best to get home.
It had been a fucking set-up. Drop off the package, pick up the payment, get dead on his way to the car. Bastard shooting at him probably had been promised the cash for his services. Eliot had been cursing himself since things went south, for allowing himself to get distracted, for wanting out of this godforsaken country so badly he'd been in take-the-money-and-run mode.
The man was slumped against a wall, limbs sprawled out in the awkward angles that telegraphed sudden, irrevocable death, a neat brown circle between the sightless eyes, head tilted at an angle made more extreme by the fact that half of it was gone... well, not gone, but oozing down the wall behind him.
*It was him or me.* Eliot swallowed against rising bile, trying to reconcile this red ruin of a man with the slightest movement of his index finger on a trigger twenty yards away. It wasn't death that bothered him, or even regret that this time, for the first time, he'd dealt it out. What bothered him was the fact that he'd had to shoot to kill. Trying to be clever, to disable or outwit the *other* guy with a gun was fantasy, good for getting himself killed but not much else. Guns were made to kill people. Eliot really didn't like having the choice made for him.
He took out his own weapon, ejecting the magazine, clearing the chamber and carefully wiping it clean with the hem of his shirt before dropping it in the man's lap with a whispered 'sorry'. Eliot knew he might have to kill again, but when the next time came, it wouldn't be a shot in the dark. Eliot Spencer was man enough to look *anyone* in the eye.
After another long moment, he shrugged and moved once again toward the shadows, planning how best to get home.
A/N: edited for grammar.
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