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For a second he cannot fathom what has happened.
At first he feels hot and strangely numb then the impact of the bullet hits him like a sledgehammer to the stomach and he falters forward a few steps before he collapses on his back in the shallows.
The sounds of the waves crashes in his ears and the frothy water turns red around him.
He gasps for air but finds none.
Instinctively he clutches the wound, but the blood just squirts through his fingers like there is a broken garden hose in his chest.
His wide eyes filled with desperate anguish meet hers, Lara’s – the woman who did everything to cause this except actually pull the trigger, but there is nothing to be found in her blue gaze except maybe indifference.
Fatigue overwhelms him and he wants to close his eyes in order to rest just for a moment.
Just a little…rest...he thinks as his vision begins to blur.
***
Liam!!! Where are you, you piece of merde!
Pierre who is only fourteen years of age but already sprouting a somewhat fully grown moustache stands in the boys locker-room, scanning the crowd for his chosen victim.
At first Liam hesitates but then a treacherous voice next to him calls out, giving away his whereabouts and eliminating his chance of escape.
“He’s right here”.
A violent shove in the back pushes him to the front of the rows of teenage boys and he is face to face with Pierre (who seems even bigger than usual) and his black eyes void of life let alone sympathy.
Liam shivers at the sight and averts his gaze. He knows there is no mercy to be found there and it will all be worse if he makes a plea.
A second later the first punch hits him directly on the nose, the second in the gut and he falls to his knees, heaving for air, blood running from his nose down his chin, tainting the otherwise neat uniform below.
“That’s for ratting me out, you little bitch” Pierre sneers in broken English, then kicks Liam in stomach twice before exiting the locker-room with his entourage.
The few bystanders who are left scatter quickly as Liam starts sobbing, leaving him alone in the room.
On all fours he crawls over to his locker and picks out his glasses from the pocket of his coat.
He sits with his back against the locker and puts the glasses on with shaking hands.
There is nothing new to the file; he must have seen it a hundred times, and yet he never gets tired of going through it again and again.
Pierre Lombard will not live to see his forties. He will perish from a rare cancer in the pancreas, just like his father and his grandfather before him.
He will die poor and alone, his father’s wealth gone, blown on extravagant parties, drugs and whores.
It is in his blood, in his history.
There is no escaping the future.
With tears still drying on his cheeks, Liam Dempsey smiles.
***
A hand closes around his, putting pressure on the gushing wound.
Caleb Nichols has fallen to his knees beside him, trying to help, but Liam resist with what little strength he has left.
He has seen the kind of man Caleb is. The dangerous kind.
The kind who kills his own friends.
“You did it!” he spits out the words with his dying breath, then shuts his eyes and slides away into the darkness, missing the confused look on Caleb's face.