My head feels heavy. It takes effort to keep my eyelids open, and my peripheral vision is just a blur. I keep focusing on distant objects just outside of this reality. The coppery smell of blood fills the air, and I try not to think about what it looks like under soggy red wad of newspaper I am pressing against my stomach. As I stumble down the filthy street, I begin to feel the light tickle of my very life dripping down the inside of my thigh. The nice thing about a gushing wound is that the blood coming out of your innards is the same temperature as the rest of your body, so you don't feel just how much you are covered with it. Somehow I always though being gutshot would be just a little more elegant then this. Damn the movies! People on the silver screen either drop dead when they get shot, or it just pisses them off enough to be awesome. I killed three men after I was hit, but now my movements are slower. Every step is torment.

SNAP

The miniature sonic boom of a bullet cracks near my ear and the report of a rifle shot immediately follows. In one fluid motion I fling the crumpled up newspaper back to the gutter, swing my MAK-90 off my back, and fall to the ground in the prone position. I have an idea where the sniper is, and it would be a tough shot for me, even on the best of days. I prop my rifle up on it's bipod, and stare down the barrel. Sure enough, there is a silhouette in the second story window. Somehow I manage to stop my body from shivering. Even though it's warm outside, I'm starting to feel a chill. I take aim and start to squeeze the trigger. The sniper manages to squeeze his first. The last thing I see is the lightning bolt of his muzzle flash.

* * *

I played this fantasy out in my mind again, today, while I was talking to a client on the phone. Nothing new. It's a common one for me – my last moments after a firefight in the street, following a violent revolution I lead in Guatemala. Something was different about it today, though. It was quite a chilling revelation. I realized that now, because of a certain woman with a hypnotizing smile and mystical eyes, dying as a gunfighter in South America is 67% less likely to happen. It's a weird thought.

Wow, I have tried not to change too much in the last year, but this is one small concession I am willing to make. Love is a strange and powerful thing.