When Martines came out, he put a .22 to the back of Veasey’s head and said, “Bye-bye, John.” Then he pulled the trigger three times. Veasey jumped up and grabbed his head. His hand was full of blood; he felt like he’d been hit with a sledgehammer. Veasey stared at Martines and yelled, “Yo, Frank. You just fucking shot me?” One bullet had hit the back of Veasey’s head and broken into fragments; a second exited through his forehead. A third had bounced off his head and into his neck. Martines told Veasey why he’d shot him: “You talk too much.”

Pagano grabbed Veasey from behind and told Martines to shoot again. Martines shot Veasey in the chest, piercing a new $3,800 leather jacket and depositing a bullet in Veasey’s ribs. But instead of going down, Veasey grabbed Martines and shoved him against the wall. “You’re fucking dead,” Martines told him. “I ain’t dead yet,” Veasey replied. The mobsters yanked down the sleeves of Veasey’s jacket to trap his arms by his side so Martines could pistol-whip him; he was out of bullets. But Veasey wiggled his left arm free, and every time Martines hit him with the gun, Veasey slugged him in the eye.

Veasey knocked Martines to the ground, but Pagano jumped him, yanked his head back, and told Martines to “cut his fucking throat.” Martines whipped out a knife, but Veasey kicked him with both feet and slid out of Pagano’s grip. The knife landed on the floor; Veasey and Martines scrambled for it. Veasey got there first. When Martines grabbed him in a headlock, Veasey stabbed him near the eye.

Martines, bleeding heavily, pleaded with Veasey not to kill him. He said he’d unlock the door if Veasey dropped the knife. Veasey buried the knife in a couch—where the cops later found it. Martines unlocked the door, and Veasey ran down the stairs. “If you go to the cops, we’ll kill your family,” Pagano yelled after him.