The Collector did not hesitate.
He drew the sleek handgun from his side with the casual ease of a man brushing lint from his sleeve and fired.
The shot echoed sharply across the square.
The old woman collapsed where she knelt.
Dead.
A thin ribbon of smoke curled from the barrel of the gun—and another from the wound in her head. The scent of burnt metal and blood mingled with the ever-present coal dust in the air.
For a heartbeat, time seemed to pause.
"Damaging my attire," the Collector muttered, holstering the weapon as though he had merely corrected a minor inconvenience.
No one screamed.
No one rushed forward.
No one even dared to breathe too loudly.
The only sound left was the low mechanical hum of the portable cooling units releasing cold air for the comfort of the man who had just executed their spokesperson.
Tansy's vision blurred.
Her fingers dug into her mother's sleeve so tightly that her knuckles turned white. Her mother did not move. No one did.
