Scarcely a moment had passed before she heard labored breathing and saw another raptor lying on its side between the seats, foaming at the mouth, dying. Something went drip … drip … drip nearby.
It was headless man, his body draped over a seat like so much dirty laundry, his blood falling in droplets to the floor. And there, in the middle of the stained carpet, lay a gun. A revolver. A big one.
An air marshal, she thought, and reached for the weapon. Yes, there. And there. Gold rings and bullet noses, just visible inside the chamber. But how many? She found the latch and popped open the gun—she was fortunate to know something about revolvers, having spent much of her youth target shooting with her father—and was disappointed to find only two bullets left. It would have to do. Then she crept forward along the carpet … until creeping forward more would expose her to the raptors, and peeked around the edge of a seat slowly.
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