The adrenaline dump hit him, and his legs went to Jell-O. He leaned against the rear shelves with a weary sigh. Fighting took so much out of him. Killing, even more. He was tired. He was hurting. But he could manage it, put it in a box. He still had work to do. He did a quick systems check. Twelve rounds in the magazine. He exchanged the half-spent magazine for the full one in his back pocket. He’d reload it tonight. He was running dangerously low on ammo. He needed to fix that problem, and soon. Especially if more assassins were coming.
