"I'm sorry." frank whispered as he pushed her blood soaked hair from her face and and peered into her quickly clouding eyes.
"I'm not." she whispered back as her breathing grew to a stop. Strange for her to be beautiful as she laid in his arms broken, bloodied and dead.
He doesn't want to remember her like this but know he would, just as he would remember her as she was 15 minutes ago: strong, deadly, a machine gun in each hand,
giving them cover, solo, infront of a group of armed, pissed italians, taking their fire.
"I'm sorry Sarah."