WARNING - Graphic Language
As she approached Crawford Street, a blue and white ball
bounced across the street in front of her and a little dark haired girl ran out
from between two parked cars, chasing it. She slammed on the brakes, swerved to
the right and jumped the curb. The car slammed into a decorative yard light and
came to rest in a cloud of dust, the hood buried in a huge shrub.
She pushed the airbag out of the way, shook her head, pushed
the door open and climbed out. She staggered to the back of the car, using it
to maintain her balance, and pulled her Glock. Something warm ran into her eyes
and she wiped at it. Just fucking great,
I’ve probably got a concussion. She forced her eyes to focus and looked
around for the little girl. Well, at
least she’s okay. And here come the fucking Russians. She watched as the
sedan came to a stop about twenty yards away and a tall, dark haired man
climbed out of the passenger side. Anisimov.
Ugly son of a bitch. She stumbled to the passenger side, fell and rolled
onto her back. Come on, motherfucker,
what are you waiting for?
She forced her head up, fighting the pain and tapped her ear
bud. “Anytime, guys,” she said and passed out.
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