INT. WAREHOUSE – DAY
JINX, QUENTIN, and POTTS, bleeding from a bullet wound to the shoulder, are sequestered in this crappy, dusty shelter. POLICE SIRENS can be heard in the distance. The men look miserable and exhausted. Potts is gamely trying to suppress his agony.
Jinx (looking out a grimy window): Shit. Shit shit shit shit shit!
Quentin: Calm down.
Jinx: Fuck you, Q. We are fucked, man. We are seriously and royally fucked here. How you doin’, Potts?
Potts: Not good, Jinxy baby.
Jinx: He’s losing a lot of blood, Q. We gotta get him to a doctor.
Quentin: Nobody’s going anywhere. Not until I say so.
Jinx: You’re not in charge anymore. Once this shit went bad, it became every man for himself.
Quentin pulls out his gun and points it at Jinx’s face.
Potts: Hey c’mon, Q. Jinx is just a little shaken up, right Jinxy? He didn’t mean nothing.
Jinx: Yeah. Yeah, that’s right. I don’t know what I’m saying, Q. I’m all shook up. That’s all.
Quentin cocks the hammer back on his pistol. Presses the barrel of the gun against Jinx’s forehead.
Quentin: Who’s in charge?
Jinx: You are. You’re team leader. Just like always.