Everything's Coming Up Aces: Alex Cheradon, #6

PART I

LUCKY DOGS

TWO WEEKS FROM NOW

CHAPTER 1

DON’T SWEAT THE DETAILS

Everything they said about the desert was true. This didn’t exactly come as a shock to me. I mean, it was the desert. Hot. Dry. Hot. There weren’t many other ways to describe it.

And, hey, look, there was a tumbleweed. Right there. Rolling across the sand.

Okay. Wow. That was kind of a surprise to me. I was pretty sure rolling tumbleweeds were just something cooked up in spaghetti westerns.

(Maybe I needed to get out more often?)

But, there it was. A lone tumbleweed, rolling along right past me.

That probably wasn’t a good omen, now that I thought about it.

I leaned against the car, wiping a hand across my sweaty forehead.

Noon in the desert. This was a brilliant idea. Noon. In. The. Desert.

I glanced up at the sun and immediately regretted it. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky so the sun was like an explosion of yellow, burning away at my corneas.

Yeah, that was a stupid idea.

I checked the time on my phone. I had already been out here ten minutes. And that was on top of the thirty minute drive from town.

Noon in the desert.

Stupid idea.

I was already drenched in sweat. My t-shirt was sticking to me in all sorts of uncomfortable manners. I checked my arm, but I couldn’t tell if I was tanning yet. I hoped I wasn’t. I worked hard all my life to perfect an even, pasty white complexion all over my body. I couldn’t let thirty minutes out in the desert ruin all that. Farmer’s tan? No, thank you. I still had a little bit of self respect.

(Just a little.)

Other than the tumbleweed, the only other thing that really surprised me about the desert was how quiet it was. I was used to the hustle and bustle of Clayton City. The constant screeching of horns and whores, stupid kids shouting at each other for no reason, the crazy people singing loudly, and the really crazy people who had their headphones in, but somehow managed to crank the sound up so loud on their iPods that I could hear the melodic raps about death and rape from a foot away.

Out here in the desert, though, not so much as a peep. Dead silence.

(Well, that was probably a poor choice of words: dead silence.)

It was creepy how quiet it was. Damn creepy.

Peep, I said out loud, just to change things up a bit.

Nothing peeped back.

(Thankfully.)

I folded my arms. That was a bad idea. The move pressed my sweaty, sticky shirt against me even more. I felt so gross right now. At what point do you sweat enough that you’re basically just bathing yourself with your body’s own moisture? Self bathing. I’m pretty sure there had to be one or two animals out there that did that.

I reached into the car for the water bottle that was already half empty. That’s when I heard the SUVs roll up.

I was surprised I didn’t hear them sooner, what with the deathly silence and all. I wondered if I had momentarily passed out from heat exhaustion? That would have been really embarrassing. Show up to a meet in the middle of the desert at noon and then pass out? That had YouTube video written all over it.

But I wasn’t really sure how else to explain how I missed hearing, or seeing for that matter, the three black SUVs until they were parking right in front of me.

I took a sip from the water bottle and watched as nobody got out of the cars. The clouds of sand kicked up by the tires slowly settled down.

I tossed the water bottle back in the car and waved.

The windows were tinted black. I wasn’t sure who I was waving to, but if I didn’t do something it was going to get real awkward out here real fast.

For a second, I was afraid that, somehow, during the drive out here I had slipped into some kind of parallel universe and that these cars didn’t have anybody in them. They were actually robots in disguise, if you know what I mean. Any second now they were going to transform into towering metal behemoths that were probably going to crush my head like a grape.

(There was a real possibility that I was suffering from some kind of heat exhaustion. I wasn’t used to these kinds of temperatures. Clayton hardly ever got any hotter than ninety-five. And, on the rare occasions that it did manage to reach Hell-like temperatures, there was an amazing invention called ‘air conditioning.’ That’s definitely what the desert needed, air conditioning. Throw up some central air and suddenly, maybe the desert wasn’t so bad anymore.)

(Of course, there were still the tumbleweeds.)

(Yeah, I definitely wasn’t feeling my best right now.)

I reached back into the car to finish off that water.

The doors of the SUV to my right opened and three men got out.

A second later the SUV to my left followed suit.

And only after the large, scary looking men in black suits, with shaved heads and creepy scars got out, did Viktor Klopov step out of the first SUV.

Klopov really didn’t look all that different from his hired muscle, except for his very blue eyes and his unusual height. He was kind of short. Not, like, normal short and not midget short. But something in between. Is awkward short a thing? That feels like it should be an option, because looking at him felt kind of awkward. I really wanted to reach out and pat him on the head, but I was pretty sure that would get my knees blown out. I managed to control myself.

Klopov was dressed in the same black suit as his goon squad and he had, by far, the most impressive facial scar. He was probably trying to compensate for his height, I’m sure.

He pulled out a cigarette and lit up. Mr. Alexander Cheradon.

Well, I’m assuming that’s what he said. His Russian accent was so thick it almost hurt my ears. I just tried to pick out any familiar sounds that made sense.

Klopov made his way to the front of the SUV. There was still plenty of space between us, a good eight to ten feet. After all, this was a showdown in the desert. You don’t want to stand too close to everybody, what with all the sweat. Even from here I could see their foreheads glistening with perspiration. Yeah, it was kind of gross.

Klopov took a long drag on his cigarette. You have made lots of trouble for me.

I didn’t respond. It’s a new thing I’m trying. I know, I’m just full of surprises these days.

Klopov tapped the side of his head with his middle finger. You give me very painful headache. You know how I feel about painful headaches? Another long drag on his cigarette. I don’t like them.

I still didn’t say anything. I eyed the one door on Klopov’s SUV that didn’t open. The sun just glared off the tinted windows, offering zero help in peeking inside.

Klopov watched me, cracking his knuckles. You are Alexander Cheradon, yes?

I nodded. Yeah, that’s me.

Another long drag on his cigarette. Interesting. I was under impression that Alexander Cheradon was a man of many words. You, though, don’t speak much.

It’s really hot out here, I said. I’m not used to the heat.

Yes. Very hot. Heat is good, no? Makes you strong. You handle the heat of the oven, you handle anything.

That would make a great bumper sticker, I said. You should look into that.

Perhaps I should.

Also, you were doing a pretty good job of carrying on both ends of the conversation. I didn’t want to mess you up. You looked like you had stayed up all night practicing.

Klopov took another long drag on his cigarette and then exhaled a puff of smoke in my direction. Alright, then. Let us talk business. I have something you want. You have something I want.

Great, I said. It sounds like the American Dream.

Of course, Klopov added after a second. You give me big headache. Massive headache. So much trouble you caused me. As if on cue, because, hey they all dressed alike, so who’s to say they didn’t rehearse this bit, too? Klopov’s goons pulled their guns out and pointed them at me. So maybe I think, you just give me what I want and I don’t have you killed.

Right. Okay. Everything’s going according to plan.

RIGHT THIS VERY SECOND

CHAPTER 2

DROPPING IN TO SAY HI

Everything was not going according to plan.

Like that even needed to be said.

I mean, do I look like the kind of guy that plans to get himself tossed out the window of the fiftieth floor of The Palazzo Hotel?

You know what? Don’t answer that. Some things are better left unsaid.

Either way, when I woke up today, I did not think to myself, Hey, today would be the perfect day to get thrown out a window. Let’s see if we can make that happen. All in on three. One, two, three, Go Team Cheradon! Woo!

Yeah, that didn’t happen.

I did, however, wake up and think, How long is it going to take me being in Vegas before I stop waking up every morning with a mouth drier than Todd Barry.

I could literally feel every drop of moisture being sucked out of my body every day. How did people live like this? It wasn’t natural. Weren’t we made up of, like, ninety percent water? Who in their right minds would build a city out in the middle of the desert?

Of course, people weren’t meant to be thrown from fiftieth floor hotel windows. So, what do I know?

I mean, I knew that this wasn’t good. Obviously. I wasn’t that dumb.

Shards of the broken window fell around me. I tumbled head over heels in the air. Everything felt painstakingly slow. Like I was in the middle of this dramatic opening action sequence, designed to capture the viewer’s attention with the intense, nail biting drama of somebody being tossed out a fiftieth story window.

Not that I was complaining. If there was ever a situation to live through in slow motion, this was definitely it.

But it was kind of deceiving. Yes, it felt like I was plummeting to the ground in slow motion. Slow enough to just reach out and grab a passing balcony with ease. But I knew the difference between fantasy and reality.

(Most of the time.)

And the reality was that I was plummeting towards the hard, unforgiving, and most likely, boiling pavement of the Palazzo’s front lot faster than Obama’s approval ratings.

This wasn’t going to be pretty.

The rushing wind stung at my eyes.

What I wouldn’t give for a grappling hook right about now.

Hell, if I’m gonna indulge in a few wish fulfillment fantasies, why not go all out? What I wouldn’t give to be Superman right now. Yeah, that would solve a lot of problems.

I wasn’t a math genius, but I knew it wasn’t going to take long for me to become intimate with the boiling pavement below. Seconds at most.

Seconds that I’ve probably already used up.

Yeah, this really wasn’t going to be pretty.

You know what? It might help to know how I ended up like this.

CHAPTER 3

HOW ALEX ENDED UP ON THE WRONG SIDE OF A FIFTIETH FLOOR WINDOW

I banged on the door of 5003 again.

Hudson! I shouted. I know you’re in there!

Is that such a good idea? Nicky asked. She wasn’t in the hotel with me. No, she had opted to assist me from the luxury of a poolside cabana back at the Millennium. Which was possible thanks to the new phones and earpieces I was able to get us, thanks to the influx of cash we got after saving the Sheikh’s daughter.

Really? I said. You’re going to question me? Right now? While you’re on the other end of the Strip?

Hm? Sorry. I wasn’t talking to you, Nicky said. I was thinking out loud. The cabana boy here just took his shirt off and I’m going through a pro/con list on whether or not I should take him as my Vegas lover.

I wiped a hand over my face. There are some things that I just don’t want to hear, Nicky.

Then don’t listen.

I try my hardest every day. But somehow, despite all my concentration, your voice manages to break through at the worst possible time.

Nicky moaned something. There were probably words involved, but I actually managed to block them out.

You’re an embarrassment to this agency, I said.

I can live with that. She sounded breathless.

I just want you to know that I am becoming physically ill at the sound of your panting, I said.

Well, this cabana boy looks sick, she replied. So that sounds about right.

How does that even sound close to right? I asked. Are you listening to anything you’re saying?

"I’m not even listening to what you’re saying," she said.

You know you’re supposed to be on the clock right now? You are aware of this?

I can multitask.

No, actually, you can’t. You have the worst attention span in the world. And I’m not exaggerating, I said. I’ve seen you get bored watching thirty second ads on YouTube. I banged on the door again. Hudson! Come on, buddy. I don’t have all day here! Into the earpiece again, I said, Are you even paying attention to the client?

What’s to pay attention to? The guy’s a pasty little nerd, Nicky replied. Why would I pay attention to him when I could be paying attention to this hot cabana boy whose abs make David Beckman look like he’s got a beer belly. She paused and took a sharp breath. Yeah. I’m gonna have to go now.

Nicky, I started, but she had already disconnected. Great, I muttered. Just great.

I felt all sorts of conflicting emotions boiling up inside of me. The two primary ones being anger and annoyance. I really needed somebody to pick on right now. Preferably somebody who wouldn’t fight back. Yeah, I know. It sounded a lot like bullying. But it was pretty cathartic for me. And usually, the scumbag that I’ve chosen to be the recipient of my emotional turmoil is, well, a scumbag. You know, it’s not like they didn’t have it coming.

So I banged on 5003 again, rolling my neck around to loosen it up. Hudson, buddy, if you don’t get your ass out here right now-!

The door to 5003 swung open abruptly.

The man standing on the other side wasn’t Hudson.

At least, I don’t think he was Hudson.

The picture of Hudson I had been shown was that of an overweight bald guy in his fifties with an unhealthy passion for Hawaiian shirts and awkwardly short shorts. Just the kind of perfect scumbag that I could work out some emotional issues on.

This guy, standing on the other side of 5003, he looked like a WWE wrestler jacked up on steroids and squeezed into a business suit that was three sizes two small. Which was the exact opposite of what I needed.

Yeah. I don’t think this was Hudson.

You know, I said, holding up both hands. I think I might have the wrong room. I am so sorry.

He glared at me. You woke me from my nap. His voice sounded like two pieces of concrete scraping against each other. Which was exactly how I imagined a guy like this would sound.

I raised both eyebrows. Nap? You nap wearing a six hundred dollar suit?

In retrospect, it was probably the wrong thing to say.

I mean, I didn’t know for certain that it was a six hundred dollar suit. For all I knew, he picked it up off the sale rack at Goodwill.

(Did Goodwill have sales racks?)

I’m gonna kill you, he growled.

I started to take a step back. Okay, well that seems to be a gross overreact-

Anything I had to say was cut off as Naptime’s hands came up and grabbed me by the shoulders.

His reach was much longer than I would have thought it would be.

Next thing I knew, I was being thrown across 5003. I crashed into the oak dining table.

I quickly picked myself up. Well, not as quickly as I would have liked, though, since my entire body was now screaming in pain, insisting that I just lie down and let myself die.

Okay. Seriously, let’s calm down. Obviously I-

Naptime bounced across the room, body checking me into the floor-to-ceiling window.

Ow. Ow. Ow.

I heard the window spider web with cracks around me. That wasn’t very reassuring. Weren’t these things supposed to be a little stronger? Like, impact resistant? I mean, we were on the fiftieth floor here. They had to have all sorts of safety features in place to make sure none of these drunken high rollers find themselves accidentally shattering a window and taking the express drop back to the front desk.

I slid down the window with a groan. My feet touched the carpet and I managed to stay upright. Although, every inch of my body was pushing the argument that I just lie down and die.

Naptime growled again and suddenly he was in front of me, swinging his fist towards my face.

I wasn’t quite sure how this had all gone so horribly wrong.

I managed to duck at the last second, just barely, and I heard a painful crack as his monstrous fist slammed into the spiderwebbed window.

I glanced up. Apparently the crack was in the window, not Naptime’s fist. Because the only thing on his face right now was rage, not pain, over the fact I had managed to dodge him.

Somehow my brain managed to get a message to the rest of my body, and I slid through Naptime’s open legs in the few seconds he was busy raging over his fist missing my head.

I spotted the door on the other side of the room, right where I had left it. I was pretty sure I could make it in about ten seconds and be down the hallway before he turned around.

Of course, he was pretty fast.

But he was big, too. At some point all that mass had to work against him. I figured now was as good a time as any for that to happen.

I jumped to my feet and made it half a step before I felt Naptime grabbing me by the collar and hauling me over his shoulder.

This time when I struck the window, it shattered, sprinkling glass all the way down to the ground floor, along with me.

CHAPTER 4

DROPPING IN TO SAY HI, PART 2

The pavement was coming up real fast now.

Well, I’m gonna be honest. This wasn’t how I expected to die. But I can’t say that I’m completely surprised. I felt like enough people had threatened to throw me off a roof if I didn’t shut up, it was bound to happen sooner or later.

My phone rang.

Oh, well, this should be interesting. I wondered who was going to be on the other end. Hopefully not my niece. I’d hate to traumatize her with the sounds of my death. That’d leave some pretty deep emotional scars.

Too bad I couldn’t check my caller id first.

Throwing caution to the window, I tapped the earpiece and answered, Hello?

Go limp.

Go limp? What was that supposed to mean? Also, those were possibly the worst ‘final words’ for me to hear. Go limp?

I heard what sounded like two shots from a cannon and then there was another body slamming into me.

I gasped, the air being expelled from my lungs, and suddenly I was on the world’s worst carnival ride.

Everything spun around me and somebody gripped me tight as I was abruptly hurtled sideways through the air.

Hold on!

Hold on to what? My bowels? Because right now they were the only thing I felt like had any control over and I was sure as hell gonna make sure that I didn’t crap myself before I died. That was the sort of thing that followed you into the afterlife. For reals.

Then I was crashing into another hotel room. This time a comfy bed broke my fall.

A woman screamed.

So did a man for that matter.

I sucked in a deep breath, trying not to vomit from all the sudden motion, and pushed myself up. I failed immediately. It felt like up was down and in was out. No, yeah, I was definitely going to vomit this time.

I squeezed my eyes shut for a second, reorienting myself, and tried to exhale slowly. I just needed-

The woman screamed again. Right into my ear.

I jerked back and found myself tangled up in silky sheets.

(This wasn’t getting any better was it?)

There was another sharp, shrill burst of screaming from the woman and I fell right off the bed.

My eyes shot open and the world made a lot more sense.

(Well, it made more sense than it did five seconds ago when I was plummeting to my doom.)

I scrambled back across the floor, quickly getting to my feet. Every inch of me was shaky. I don’t know what I looked like to everybody else, but I felt like Michael J. Fox.

The bed I had crash landed into was occupied by a naked blonde, who was desperately trying to cover up with the sheets. The screaming man, also unfortunately very naked, was standing over by the bathroom, holding a bottle of champagne.

(And for that matter, why was he screaming? He wasn’t in the bed when I landed.)

(Also, nobody really wants to see a naked man screaming.)

I turned around and found Devon Christian standing in front of the shattered window, straightening his tie. There was an emergency fire hose hanging down behind him. His charcoal suit looked otherwise unmarred.

I looked down at my t-shirt which was covered in sweat, broken glass and a little bit of blood and spit.

I glanced at Devon again. Not a dirty mark on him.

Right.

I turned back to the couple who, incidentally, were still screaming. I held up both hands and said in what I hoped was a calming tone of voice, Sorry. We’re part of an emergency quality assurance team here at the Palazzo.

The couple kept screaming.

Obviously not that calming. I wondered what my voice sounded like to them?

I looked back at Christian, but he didn’t look concerned. Of course, he probably thought butterflies flew out of my mouth every time I spoke. So who knew what my voice sounded like to him.

I turned back to the screaming couple.

(Seriously, between them they had enough lung power to make Aquaman feel inadequate.)

I just waved a dismissive hand. Yeah. Never mind.

Christian and I hightailed it out to the hallway. We made it down to the elevators before I had to stop and take a moment to catch my breath. I still felt like I was going to vomit.

What the hell was that? I asked.

Christian checked his glasses for dirt. I don’t know. Probably a couple on their honeymoon. Or, I suppose if you wanted to give into all the bad Vegas stereotypes, a hooker and her client. She seemed kind of clean for a hooker, though.

This is the Palazzo, I pointed out.

Christian jabbed at the UP button. That’s true.

But that’s not what I meant, I said. What happened after I took a swan dive off the fiftieth floor?

I saved your ass.

The elevator arrived and Christian pushed the button for the fiftieth floor.

Ah, wrong direction, I said.

No, it’s not. Hudson’s still up there.

That’s not Hudson, I said, digging out the photo from my back pocket. "This is Hudson."

Christian shoved the black and white photo of the overweight man in shorty shorts out of his face. I really don’t need to see that again. I have enough issues going on without that being seared into my brain.

This is not the guy who threw me out the window, I said. Ipso facto, that’s not Hudson up there. Which means we don’t need to go back up. I jabbed the lobby button.

Christian studied me for a moment, tapping a finger against his chin. You look tense.

I glared at him. Being thrown out a fiftieth floor window will do that. Also, your little George of the Jungle routine got my stomach all flipped around. I’m pretty sure it’s upside down now. That’s the only reasonable explanation for why this feeling of nausea won’t go away.

Christian folded his arms. That was the worst thank you I have ever heard.

That’s because it wasn’t supposed to be a thank you, I said.

I did save your life. You are aware of that, right? Christian asked.

I’m aware of the fact that I had to go up to Not-Hudson’s room by myself because you got distracted by a swizzle stick convention, I said.

If you had waited five minutes, he shot back, holding up his hand with all five fingers spread out, "Five minutes. You wouldn’t have had to go up alone."

Devon, all I really have to say is: Swizzle. Sticks. I threw up both hands. Worst excuse ever not to have my back.

Technically I did have your back, he pointed out. Because if I didn’t, you’d be a bloody pancake right now.

I held a hand to my mouth as my stomach did another backflip. Please don’t mix blood and food right now.

Blood and food, Christian repeated quietly, a wistful smile on his face. That reminds me of a story.

It’s probably a story I really don’t want to hear.

He frowned. You used to like my stories.

That’s because before you went crazy, your stories were nice, sane little stories. Some action, an attractive lady, a funny misunderstanding. Your stories used be lighthearted versions of Miami Vice. It was great. I said. Now, whenever I say something that reminds you of a story, I get a harrowing tale of how you spent a month in a coffin or a disgusting account of how you once went to a blood buffet. Do you know what that does to a guy who’s not crazy? Spoiler alert: I get nightmares. Like, real, genuine nightmares. Not just the kind of nightmares I used to get about the Olsen Twins.

Okay, well, first, it wasn’t a blood buffet, he said. "That doesn’t even make sense. Period. Blood buffet? He made an impatient, disdainful sound with his lips. What is this? A Hammer horror film? Come on, Alex, this is reality. Maybe you want to join me in it?"

I definitely do not want to join you in your version of reality, I replied. Since apparently your version involves drooling over swizzle sticks.

Funny story about those swizzle sticks: They once saved my life.

I paused and stared at him, but Devon’s face was a mask of deadpan earnestness. Finally I shook my head. Nope. Not gonna take the bait.

There’s no bait.

There’s clearly bait and I can see you dangling it in front of me and I’m not going to take it.

"Trust me, I am not dangling anything in front of you."

I should hope not, I replied. Not with the way you just pronounced ‘dangling’.

You know, this story is pretty funny, he said.

Don’t take this the wrong way, but since you went crazy, your sense of humor can’t really be trusted. I looked at him. You thought Hostel was hilarious.

It was classic slapstick.

No, I said. It was nail biting, nightmare inducing horror.

Is there supposed to be a difference?

The elevator dinged to let us know we had arrived, and the doors slid open.

Mr. Naptime stood on the other side waiting for us.

Oh, come on! I exclaimed.

Naptime didn’t waste any time. He jabbed his fist forward. Christian and I jumped to either side.

Devon’s fist came up a second later, slamming into Naptime’s elbow. There was a loud crack and suddenly Naptime’s elbow was bent the wrong way.

Naptime jerked his arm back and the elevator doors closed again.

Where were you ten minutes ago, I said. That little move there would have saved me the experience of trying to fly.

That doesn’t look like Hudson, Christian said.

That’s what I’ve been saying!

The elevator doors opened again. Naptime was still standing there.

He growled, but Christian made the first move this time.

He lunged forward, tackling Naptime by the torso. They slammed into the hallway wall and, I swear, I felt the whole floor shake.

Naptime howled and got in a lucky shot and suddenly Christian was flying down the hallway, crashing into the maid’s cart.

Naptime whirled around back to me.

Not really eager for a round two, I jabbed at the DOOR CLOSE button. He got his hands in and forced the elevator doors back open.

You know, I said quickly, this is all really just a big misunderstanding. Honestly. I don’t know who you are, but we aren’t looking for you. I swear. Cross my heart and all that. We’re looking for a guy named Hudson and, I’m like ninety-nine percent sure you’re not him. So, what say we let bygones be bygones?

Naptime paused for a second. His face screwed up in what I thought was an attempt to think. It clearly wasn’t something he was used to. Hudson?

Yeah, I replied. Hudson. I pulled out the photo. See? You’re definitely not him. Sorry I woke you up from your nap. Clearly napping is a very important thing to you. I get that. I don’t like it when people interrupt me during an episode of Game of Thrones. Of course, I don’t go all berserker Hulk on them. But, hey, to each his own, right? It’s our differences that make us who we are.

Naptime’s face darkened again and his lips twisted into snarl. "Hudson," he growled, squeezing the elevator doors so tightly I was reasonably certain he was going to leave indentations in them.

Why does everything I say somehow make the situation worse? Clearly today was going to be a bust. Can I just go back to bed and start over tomorrow? It couldn’t be any worse than how today was going.

Then Christian shot him.

CHAPTER 5

THE BIGGER THEY ARE, THE HARDER THEY ARE TO FALL

Mr. Naptime went down with a THUD.

Again, I’m pretty sure the whole hallway shook.

Christian peeked into the elevator. We should probably be quick about this. At some point somebody’s going to wonder what’s going on out here. He pulled a few squares of toilet paper from his hair.

I walked over to Naptime’s body. Devon, you shot him.

You’ve really got a thing against saying ‘thank you’ today, he replied, holstering the Desert Eagle.

I pointed to the mammoth beast man. Devon, you shot him, I repeated.

We don’t have a rule against me shooting people, do we?

No, not exactly.

So, he shrugged.

But we talked about how we wanted to cut back on the use of bullets and explosives to solve problems, I said.

Sometimes you just need to shoot the bear, he replied. Alternatively, we could have just let him throw you out the window again.

I sighed.

But, hey, at least I didn’t kill him.

I looked at him dubiously. You didn’t?

He glanced down at the body and studied it for a second. He shrugged. Well, I wasn’t trying to kill him. So, you know.

I shook my head and checked for a pulse. It took me a second, but I found one. You’re lucky.

"I’m not lucky, he replied. I am a very good shot."

You weren’t certain that you hadn’t killed him.

It’s not exactly a science, Alex, he said. Just because I try not to kill a guy, doesn’t mean something won’t go wrong once the bullet is out of my gun and in his body. I have no control of the outcome at that point. It’s his body, it can do what it wants.

I just thought it would have been nice to have been able to question him, I said.

How was I supposed to know that he’d be this giant tough guy that passes out the minute somebody shoots him, Christian said. Would you have figured that out? I mean, look at him. He should be writhing around the ground in pain, not passed out cold.

Okay, that’s kind of true.

Somebody shoots me, he continued, I don’t pass out. It just doesn’t happen.

You also have a gem in the middle of your chest that keeps you from getting injured, I said. Last time I shot you, I did more damage to your suit than your skin.

And don’t think I haven’t forgotten about that, he said, following me down to what was supposed to be