He rolled his dark, stupid eyes toward Roger. “And I used four of the six bullets in that g*n on a cheap wench in Seattle.” He smiled a b****y smile and his teeth winked at Roger like broken tombstones. Then he lunged for the pistol.
Roger fired twice, wasting crucial time to aim for his legs and so spare his life. It was an automatic reflex, like pulling a punch—he simply wasn"t a murderer.
And he simply wasn"t ambidextrous. Redirecting the g*n and then absorbing its kick had overwhelmed his wobbly left arm’s capabilities. And as a consequence he missed his attacker once entirely.
The second bullet, however, punched through leather and flesh and deep into the muscle of Omar"s right leg, where it ricocheted twice and blasted out the back, leaving an exit hole the size of a cereal bowl.
