Dave in a stone grey suit jacket, speckles of red dotted his pants, his top, his face, everything – he hadn't known what to do, the blood just wouldn't fucking stop. He paced around his apartment – big, nervous steps, covering the length in as little as five or six. Banging on the door – hinges close to bursting point.

Time was scarce.

And he knew it.

Step, step – across the room again, a grubby .45 tempting him from the bedside table. Keep breathing, he told himself, each inhalation bringing him nearer to tears. He reached out a shaky right hand, wrapped bony fingers around the grip of the murder weapon, and returned his hand to his side, the first tear rolling down his cheek and falling silently to the linoleum, rippling on contact, more streaking his cheeks already.

He stood against the back wall, painted hospital ward white – it would make for a nice effect. He brought his hands to his chest and thought about what went wrong.

It took him back to the night of the deal.

In the restaurant, well after hours. It was just him and his two bodyguards – all muscle, no brain – and some skinny smart suited guy with a bulky white haired chump watchdogging, fingering the piece under his coat.

Dave had the coke – a suitcase filled to bursting with it, sealed in airtight bags. Dave was not the problem. Dave could see the other man with a case of his own – good sign – but the man twitched too much, kept making eyes with the burly lad with his eyes down on them. His voice quivered, “lemme see the shit”, a hoarse voice, croaky and old. Dave gently lay the case out on the table, clipped it, revealed the treasure – the other man almost choked.

“The green?” mumbled Dave, irritably.

“Well. . .” said the skinny man, hesitantly, leaving the sentence to trail off. He made a face at his watch, Dave saw the muscle pick up the reflection, and waited for some kind of signal.

A cough, Skinny drummed his fingers on his cuff link – Dave hit the ground shooting.

Shot one took out the hand of Fatso the muscleman as it retracted from his inside pocket, his 9mm dropping to the floor with a harsh clatter. He yelled – deep voice, no high pitched scream.

Clatters, crashes overhead – a squad of Skinny's busted through the kitchen way, shotgun toting, firing like nuts, Dave's own men dropping dead in showers of blood.

He got on his knees, and crawled. Crawled and crawled, hit the fire exit, alarms on, sprinklers active – one quick look back at the carnage. His men dead, Fatso bleeding – no fingers – Skinny under a table praying.

He was outta there as the sirens started to wail.

Since the mishap a couple nights ago, he hadn't moved a muscle - too afraid, too angry. He sat in a cheap wooden chair, a few metres from his olive green door, with that .45 in his hand, just waiting, waiting and waiting. He had no idea what he was waiting for, but he knew when it came, he was gonna blow it's fucking brains out.

He must have been dozing – it was dark - he jolted up in the chair, cramp in his neck – panic – as the door creaked open. He hid the pain, the figure hit the lights and Dave saw him at a skewed angle, his neck almost glued to his shoulder.

Dave almost shit himself, tipped backward in his seat, rolled, potshots before he could even see Skinny standing there in a neck brace, his hands in the air, with a scared shitless look on his face.

Skinny went down when the third shot clipped his leg. Dave, his face red – too scared to breathe, too angry to breathe – didn't care, kept shooting, lodging bullets in the torso, the side of the head, the shoulder – he kept shooting until the clip ran empty and Skinny's corpse poured blood on his welcome mat, his arms still in the air.

He placed the gun on the table, walked over to the corpse, catching up on all that breathing he forgot about, his heart working triple time. He stood over the body and the panic surged through him like an electric shock. Skinny was sprawled on his doorstep, his blood soaked white shirt ripped open, a police wire taped to his bullet riddled chest.

Dave screamed curses, ripped at his hair. He bolted to his window, the one that looked out onto the street, tripping, stumbling, keeping his balance, hitting the window with force as he pressed his hands on it.

A solitary van, navy blue, satellite antenna on the roof. He watched the van, unable to pull himself away anyway – the fear kept him glued to the pane.

A door opened in the van, bluesuits streamed from the back, guns ready.

Dave knew when to quit.

Step, step – across the room again, a grubby .45 tempting him from the bedside table. Keep breathing, he told himself, each inhalation bringing him nearer to tears. He reached out a shaky right hand, wrapped bony fingers around the grip of the murder weapon, and returned his hand to his side, the first tear rolling down his cheek and falling silently to the linoleum, rippling on contact, more streaking his cheeks already.

Bang, bang on the door, shouts outside.

Dave wiped a tear, raised the gun higher, the barrel in his mouth, tasting gunpowder, chewing steel.

He was trembling, the shouting outside was getting louder.

His face glistened with tears, he tried to put pressure on the trigger – too shaky – breathe.

Bang, bang, thud – his door came down, four armed men dashed into the premises, guns out, pointing at the man with the gun in his mouth.

They stood fixed – steady hands – steadier than his.

Breathe.

Guns cocked, heavy artillery – not like his cheap gun.

Breathe.

Muscles tensing, shakes dying away, all focus coming back.

Breathe.

He closed his eyes, pulled the trigger – no clip, still breathing.

Never mind – the Feds did it for him.