The last gangster standing—or rather sitting now—on the floor of the elevator, whom Athena didn't bother to get the name of, gazed in admiration at his captors, marveling at their speed and expertise as he recalled again the gun battle that had unfolded between them in mere seconds.
The air was still heavy with the scent of gunpowder, mixing with the sharp tang of fear that gripped him. Then, he glanced at his fellow gang members, sprawled lifelessly in a pool of their own blood, their eyes open and staring vacantly into the void.
He would close their eyes, but he feared that any movement from him might warrant a gunshot. So, he remained sitting, nerves racking his frame as the elevator continued its ascent, the numbers flickering by in a relentless countdown.
Would they keep their word and let him go? That kind of mercy was unheard of in his circles, and the fear tightened its grip around his chest like a vice. He didn't want to die.
