Marek stared across the room at the others. Dijoux, the tall black man, an expert in small arms, was standing with his foot on a chair just a few metres from Marek. Fuentes, the strawberry blonde sniper, was across on the other side, seated reading a newspaper on the couch. It was almost a joke, Marek thought to himself. Fuentes was even wearing a hat, for goodness sake!
He walked over to the fridge and grabbed a bottle of his favourite beer, absently pulling at the label. He then twisted the cap. The ensuing explosion was enough to remove Marek’s left arm just below the shoulder, and his right hand just above the wrist. He felt no pain though. Marek died instantly from a piece of glass from the bottle that pierced his brain through his left eye. The expression on his face amused Fuentes. The bomb was meant for Dijoux, but Marek would do, as long as she was not a suspect. She wouldn’t be though, since the explosion had caused her some damage when a piece of glass from the bottle ripped into her arm, despite her being on the other side of the room.
Dijoux was still lying where the force of the blast had left him prostrate and unconscious. He was missing a substantial part of his left leg where it had been on the chair. A portion of Marek’s arm had assisted with his wound.
Fuentes calmly reached for the telephone on the table beside the couch, dialled 9-1-1, and as soon as the call was connected, adopted a panicked childlike voice to report the incident. As she replaced the handset on the receiver, she laughed a dry, coughing laugh that made Dijoux flinch, despite his current lack of consciousness.
(to be continued …)