Prologue:
So this is death.
“I’m Dex Callahan.” I continued to reassure myself of this fact as the world shimmered like heat waves around me. My ears filled with a nagging ring and my left arm hung useless at my side. Somewhere behind me, lodged in my brand new mahogany desk, was a .44 calibre slug that had unfortunately passed through me. My gun, a beautiful Smith & Wesson lay some feet away, glistening in the morning light. Behind it, my assailant was crumpled against the far wall, a swath of blood following him to the floor. He was an ugly man and death treated him unkindly in making his unremarkable ugliness, remarkable. His eyes, lacking the vitality of life, questioned the veracity of his own death. “Yeah buddy, looks like someone gotcha.” It hurt to talk, my throat parched, my voice whispery. “Looks like … I’m the better aim.” The idea of a cold Dr Pepper, a cold anything for that matter, seemed more important than the pain in my shoulder, or the smell of gasoline permeating my office. The ringing in my ears, loud guns, you gotta love them, turned to sirens. A sudden knocking on the door, voices strange yet familiar through the smoky frosted glass, filled with an urgency of life and death. Mine. I tried to call out but whatever voice I had only whispered in return. The door banged open and shuddered against the wall, the frosty glass shattering and raining to the floor. A brand new pane glass window too with my name emblazoned across the top. Good thing I was dying, or I’d have to charge someone for that. I watched as the paramedic checked for signs of life. Cold hands against my neck and on my wrist, the bright light into the eyes, the scent of Old Spice or something like it lingering after he checked for breath sounds. It was his professional opinion that I was still alive, if just barely. I tried to smile at that thought.
