Cato just laughs, an almost bitter sound that overtakes the snarls and growls from below. "Shoot me and he goes down with me." He's right. If she takes him out and he falls to the mutts, Peeta is sure to die with him. They've reached a stalemate, even as she pulls her bowstring back till it is taut. She can't shoot Cato without killing Peeta, too. He can't kill Peeta without guaranteeing an arrow in his brain. They stand like statues, both of them seeking an out. Peeta's lips are turning blue. If she doesn't do something quickly, he'll die of asphyxiation and then she'll have lost him and Cato will probably use his body as a weapon against me. In fact, she's sure this is Cato's plan because while he's stopped laughing, his lips are set in a triumphant smile as he twists Peeta's neck with a deafening crack. The force of it must've overbalanced him because he falls backward with a yell, into the pack of mutts, taking Peeta's body with him.