He coughed up some blood. “Are you going to get me a doctor,” he said, “or are you going to finish me.”
The faces of the few men I had killed in my lifetime flashed through my brain. I wanted to simply walk away, but the little voice in my head told me I would regret it later. I walked to where he lay, put the barrel of the pistol near his temple. He didn’t show fear.
“Finish me,” he said.
“Aren’t you afraid to die?” I said.
“Men like us shouldn’t be afraid to die,” he said.
I stepped away to avoid the blood splatter and finished him.
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