Dyne glanced down from one to the other, admiring his handiwork. “Looks like you chose the wrong alley.” He said. It was then he noticed the hole in the second tough’s pocket. He turned to see where the shot had gone, and figured it out immediately as the twisting motion lanced pain up his side. There was an equally ragged hole in the fabric of his shirt, stained by a liquid darker than the water staining the alley. No, he decided. If he could get the doctors to patch him quickly, maybe he could slip away before anyone had time to find him. So, unsteadily, he started walking.