He doesn't know how he got there, but there he is, package of heroin wrapped in brown paper in one hand and a hand on the gun in his jacket, looking over his shoulder to the man standing behind him. It's not his usual partner, and somehow that seems out of place, too, but he brushes the thought aside.

There are four men in front of them. Four men demanding something from them, something not previously agreed to. The four men have guns, too, guns they don't bother to conceal. By the time the first shot rings out -- he doesn't know where it comes from, but it echoes around him, somehow louder than any gunshot should be -- he's already running for cover, hoping his partner's following him, reaching for his own gun with his free hand.