Gabriel works as a kindergarten teacher. Can this get any weirder?

It wasn't complicated to get the address at all. I didn't need the Agency for that. Visitor groups are registered at the Congress Palace.

She ordered me to stay away. But hey, she's not Gabriel anymore, right? She chose to be a civilian, so I'll treat her like one. Kindergartens are civilian institutions, too, without armed guards or barbed wire around. Everyone is free to casually walk by and share a smile with the cute kids through the fence.

Also, no one said you couldn't kill old friends turned to mercenary kings if they happen to come around at the same time by accident. There are strict-looking red signs everywhere advising you against touching your face, but I've never seen one featuring a dead traitor with a few bullets in his head.

There's no cheer in my grin when I think about it. And when I turn around the corner of the kindergarten's street, I lose my smile completely.

Mint is already there. Alive and kicking, casually leaning against a tree, with something in his hand.

I start to run in his direction before I can find the right word for that something. Correction, my legs start to run. My brain is still busy assessing the situation.

Mint is here to shoot Gabriel.

And I'm too late to stop him.

There's no way I can make it there in time. Mint is too fast when it comes to killing people.

But my body doesn't agree. My nervous system makes me run full speed, full force towards someone who will most probably kill the unsuspecting woman, then me, in that order, without hesitation. I'm practically asking for it.

The point of no return is clear. Mint's shoulder goes tense, which means that he's going to shoot, and I can't stop him. I cry out and almost fall face first as if my feet stumbled on something. But the block isn't really on the road. It's in my mind.

I accept that it's hopeless. I can't save her. Mint has never missed a target standing this close.

I give up.

Mint pulls the trigger.

Almost. Just a second before doing that, though, he bends over, for absolutely no reason. As if he's going to be sick.

I don't need more than a few seconds either to get by his side. My pulse is two hundred beats per minute, and I'm panting heavily. But I still look better than Mint.

He's wiping his mouth and coughing. There's no way to mistake the disgusting little mound by his feet for anything else.

He threw up. Literally.

It's the only reason why I can surprise him. He's been too busy barfing to hear me coming.

My side hurts like hell. I definitely should do more sports and less booze.

"What the fuck," I greet him. "You're disgusting, man."

He tries to stand up but fails miserably.

"You couldn't shoot her, right?" I try to sound mocking, but for some reason, I sound sympathetic instead.

Mint grunts something incomprehensible and lets another dose out.

"Geez," I sigh. "I really should put you out of your misery, the sooner the better. Just talking about shooting her makes you sick, bro. How more pathetic can you get?"

His gaze could make James fucking Bond scream and look for cover. But not me, obviously.

"Yeah," he says, spitting out the rest, straightening his back. "And what about you, Duke?"

"Me?" I snort. "I'm nothing like you. I'm not pathologically attached to an ugly oddball with a monotone voice and a misplaced sense of duty."

"So you'd shoot her without a problem, right?" he asks.

"Should the need arise, of course, why not?" I shrug.

"That's good to know," says Mint, pointing behind my back. "Because here she comes."