Clayton plunged the short dagger through Bane's ankle, twisted the blade, and drew it out to plunge it again into his calf. Bane drew back, tearing the grip of Clayton's dagger from his hand. Clay gagged, sputtering blood over his own face, and chin, and rolled into his side.
It did not hurt anymore, which was bad, but maybe not so bad.
Bane was away a short while, and returned with Cassus Finley's pistols holstered, and his shotgun pointed in Clayton's face.
"You poor thing." Clayton grimaced. "You must hate it here."
Bane squeezed the trigger, hesitated a moment, and then the explosion of noise, the smell of gun smoke, and the mess of blood, brain, and bone replaced the space where once was Clayton Walker's head.
Bane felt his eyes well up, and forced it away. Jonathan Walker could mourn for his lost father, but not through him.
Bane was one step closer to freedom.