Shots ring out around the corner, nicking the edge of the wall by your ear. Your heart is in your throat, pulse pounding, and you look down at the weapon in your hand, the dark steel glinting asphalt in the street light. You take a deep breath and check to make sure the safety is off. You can do this. You have trained for this. You have the best on-target record in your class. All you have to do is imagine the men around the corner as those black and white paper targets you’re so good at marring, and you’ll get out of here in one piece.
You exhale and step around the corner, weapon in front you. You freeze, finger on the trigger, as you realize how young the man who had been shooting at your head really is. Time slows down, and you notice the single piece of hair that curls over his forehead, and the rip in the sleeve of his jacket, right below the shoulder. This boy is a far thing from target practice.
A gun goes off, time speeds up. You twist sideways as you’re momentarily thrown off balance, and there’s a new red-hot scalding sensation on your arm. You keep the other arm raised and squeeze the trigger.
Congratulations. You’ve just made your first kill.