old con—with his right hand he presses an adhesive chip the size of a sesame seed to the nape of her neck. Guilt gnaws at him as soon as it's done. Can't be helped—business first.
"You've got a pulse, anyway." He stands, wishing he were taller, younger, hating himself for wishing it. Backing away, needing her eyes off him, he nearly trips over Villar. >From the deck he looks up, eyes mad with shock. Seeing blood trickling from his ear, Karl drops to check for concussion.
Villar slaps his hand away. Karl should know better than to try to help a wounded dog—get bit that way. Karl goes to find Sam, lightstick overhead, calling into dark, dust. He steps over the other two guards, shoes slipping in something dark and slick. Hunkering, lightstick between his teeth, he lays a finger along each of their necks.