Pacifist

  His weapon flashed to position, but then the long weariness overtook him. No more killing. Please. No more killing. He lowered the gun, turned and headed quietly in the opposite direction.

  A voice behind him yelled, “Hey! Stop! You—

  He ran.

  The burst of fire caught Warren Casey as he attempted to vault to the next building. It ripped through him and the darkness fell immediately, and far, far up from below, the last thought that was ever signalled was That’s right!

  Fifteen minutes later Senator Phil McGivern scowled down at the meaningless crumpled figure. “You couldn’t have captured him?” he said sourly.

  “No, sir,” the security sergeant defended himself. “It was a matter of shoot him or let him escape.”

  McGivern snorted his disgust.

  The sergeant said wonderingly, “Funny thing was, he could’ve finished off the three of us. We were the only ones on the roof here. He could’ve shot us and then got away.”

  One of the others said, “Probably didn’t have the guts.”

  “No,” McGivern growled. “He had plenty of guts.”

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