I could tell by the look on his face that he was dead. The twinkle in his eye, the little smirk, all gone. His color was changing, pink to yellow, as the blood drained from his face, out of the hole in the back of his head, ruining his leather headrest. I had meant it as a warning shot. His car had aimed straight at me, not braking or swerving to avoid me. I fired a warning shot over his head, through his windshield. The glass deflected the bullet downward and instead of going over his head, it shot straight in between his eyebrows. I really meant it as a warning shot. It wasn’t my fault.
I dragged him out of the car and laid him on the pavement. I didn’t have to feel his pulse or listen to his breath. A hole straight through the brain assures only one outcome. I went back to his car and dragged the passenger out of the right seat, out of the tangle of her shoulder strap and airbag. She was breathing air and pulsing blood. She might live. I laid her on the pavement beside her lover.
She looked up at me and said, “It was just a fling. It didn’t mean anything.”
I said, “Save your strength. Help is on its way.”
She said, “I was getting ready to break things off. I don’t want a divorce anymore.”
I said, “Don’t worry. I still love you.” I leaned over and kissed a tear off of her cheek. That’s when I fired a second warning shot.
