Get the suitcase… check.

Check the contents… check.

Kill the other men in the room… pending.

Frank crouched behind the crate and felt both holsters at his hips with calm, sweaty hands. The pistols he normally had stashed there were long gone, a unfortunate turn of events he hadn’t made preparations for. He grimaced and sunk further into his cover as the top of the crate exploded with a quick crack and a shower of splinters.

“There’s nothing in that case worth dying over,” yelled Marcone as he refreshed his rifle’s supply of ammo. “I’ll even forgive you for punching Ralph,” he added as another barrage of ordinance laid to wast whatever was in that box. “Just stand up, get winged and we can all go home.”

Frank looked left and right and spied the only thing he could call an escape route: in the far right there was a door, one that didn’t look too reinforced. “Marcone,” he hollered over a blast of bullets, “I’m standing up!”

""Take the shot in the arm, then, eh?"

“Something like that,” he muttered.