As the door swings open, she looks down the barrel of the pistol and holds her breath. I nod once. She takes a step through the threshold. The door swings at her. The impact thrusts her left side into the wall, her body rotating to the right as she instinctively attempts to stand. Her legs being incapable of supporting her weight, she falters and looks up, uncertain of what happened. I motion for her to stay still. The smell of copper and cordite fills the room, there’s a body slumped on the bench ahead, with blood dripping from the upper body over the bench and onto the floor, pooling toward the center of the room. A fresh kill. A man rounds a corner, firing at us. I unload my clip in the direction of the bullets coming at us. Greta does not. Her eyes turn into narrow slits, she inhales, and upon exhaling, she fires one shot. Bullets no longer whiz at us. She covers me while in the middle of a combat reload, striding sideways, slamming a new cartridge into the grip of my gun. Greta raises an eyebrow at me.
