Lily made it to the car and drove away, crying. Still, she drove away. That's what really matters. That's how the story ends. What about Martin, you wonder? Well, it went about the way you would imagine.
Martin was already falling to the hard, dusty concrete of the factory floor when his brain registered his gun's report. A glimpse, so fast he doubted his eyes, showed Anton's head jerking morbidly back. And blood? Had there been blood?
Martin's hands were still extended in front of him, clutching the gun, when his stomach slammed into the floor. His breath fled in pain as he bucked forward and hammered his chin against the concrete, opening a deep gash and jarring his senses. He rolled slightly to his right and rammed hard into the green metal box, some piece of machinery that he'd hoped to use as cover against Anton's return fire.
But no return fire came. Pain enveloped Martin from all his extremities, converging on his guts and tying them into a tight knot. His cheek had come to rest on the dirty floor and dust swirled around his face as he panted in fear and injury. Blood ran from the gash in his chin. It dripped down his jaw line and pooled up under his cheek and ear, but he didn't move. He clutched the gun, tried to still his breathing and listened for any sound from Anton. None came.
When the police found him a few hours later, Martin was in the deep, dangerous sleep of his brain concussion. The infection in his chin was working red and hot up his face. Most of Anton was where Martin had seen him fall. Skull and tissue fragments were found up to fifteen feet away. A perfect shot in the end, when it mattered. Anton would have been proud.
Police never identified Anton, and Martin never told them anything. Martin did four years hard time for Anton's killing, unable to explain himself without endangering Lily. After everything he'd been through, the hard time was easy.
He never heard from Lily again, but he got a blank postcard from Michigan six years later. He would remember the scent of that perfume, the one he'd bought her in Paris, forever.
That's it. The end.
Hello, friends. How are you today?
Later. Love.
