The gun laughs, spitting bullets. The shooter grins; thick smoke pours over his lips. The whole thing is a sick joke, devil's dance, see. It happens fast, too fast for anyone involved to think, but everything is in a well-established sequence…
BANG… BANG-BANG… step… step… step… BANG.
He stumbles forward, on the first bullet, inhales deeply. Everything rings – the blast, the suddenly short breath, the overwhelming shock, like half your body got torn away. He can feel that this is over. This is not a stray bullet. This gun is here to see him through to the end. So he starts laughing, gurgles blood and the last of his breath. Violence of the bullet's impact jerks the briefcase out of his hand. It falls, opens, and sprays a fountain of papers on the sidewalk. He blindly swings his arm until he finds something to hold on to.
Shot again and again.
It may sounds like whizzing, snarling, groaning, but it's laughter. What a sick fucking joke it's been. Thank fucking god it's over.
She is hidden