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200 lines
9.1 KiB
HTML
200 lines
9.1 KiB
HTML
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<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN"
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"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd">
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<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
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<head>
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<title>Risk - Chapter 1</title>
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<link rel="stylesheet" type="text/css" href="imperaWeb.css"/>
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<link rel="stylesheet" type=
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"application/vnd.adobe-page-template+xml" href=
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"page-template.xpgt"/>
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</head>
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<body>
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<div id="text">
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<div class="section" id="xhtmldocuments">
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<h2>1</h2>
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<p>
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The phone shuddered on his thigh, sending a jolt along the muscle like he'd plugged into a socket. Somebody always called. He was glad of it. Shona Kintyre
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was bored and fiddling with the buttons on the camera.
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</p>
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<p align="JUSTIFY">
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The brass were milling about and looking at their watches. Chief Constable, justice minister, that new drugs Czar who had promised to win the war and
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hadn't a clue. The whole pack were shuffled here, the Mail, and Express, a couple of Sunday boys, Radio Clyde, a bimbo from TV, big hair and teeth.
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</p>
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<p align="JUSTIFY">
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Tom Risk had the hand-out and wanted gone from here. He could write this from the office in ten minutes flat and get on with something worthwhile. He
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fished the phone out and Shona shot him a speculative look. There was nothing for her here but a line up of heads, fake smiles. Smooth smug arrogance.
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</p>
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<p align="JUSTIFY">
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"Tom, is that you?"
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</p>
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<p align="JUSTIFY">
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Risk recognised the voice. Gerry Mack, the driver who had ferried him down here. He turned away from the buzz, made it to the swing door.
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</p>
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<p align="JUSTIFY">
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"Talk now."
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</p>
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<p align="JUSTIFY">
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"You want a story? Gerry sounded breathless.
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</p>
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<p align="JUSTIFY">
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"What you got?"
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</p>
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<p align="JUSTIFY">
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"What's it worth?"
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</p>
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<p align="JUSTIFY">
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"I'm a mind reader?"
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</p>
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<p align="JUSTIFY">
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<em>All questions</em>
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. "I got a shot cop, that's what I got."
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</p>
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<p align="JUSTIFY">
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"Shot? Where?"
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</p>
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<p align="JUSTIFY">
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"In the guts, looks like. Man, he's hosing the place. He's in some state."
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</p>
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<p align="JUSTIFY">
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"No Gerry, I mean where the hell is he?"
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</p>
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<p align="JUSTIFY">
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"South Street. I was just heading back. You want me to get you?"
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</p>
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<p align="JUSTIFY">
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"No. I got Shona's wheels. I'm only minutes away."
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</p>
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<p align="JUSTIFY">
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She was still looking at him and he used his eyes to draw her across with her bag without anybody catching the gesture. The pack were like crows, scared to
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miss out, always watching the moves, ready for a feeding frenzy.
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</p>
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<p align="JUSTIFY">
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"Slide out quiet."
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</p>
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<p align="JUSTIFY">
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"Something up?"
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</p>
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<p align="JUSTIFY">
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"Sounds like."
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</p>
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<p align="JUSTIFY">
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Over at the back of the reception hall where the Chief was getting ready to make a speech, one of the brass was talking into his radio. Risk saw his face
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set like plaster and his eyes narrow as they flicked to his boss. In that instant he knew Gerry Mack was right on the button. He'd have to shift.
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</p>
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<p align="JUSTIFY">
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Shona got them out of the new Custom House building down on the Clydeside and little Ford made it to sixty on the straight, trailing blue fumes. At the far
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end of road they overtook a line of cars that had stuck behind an obstruction and then they had to stop right on the corner. Shona had the camera up and
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ready. Blue lights stuttered panic urgency. Up the street somebody was bawling and a flat stench of petrol washed the air.
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</p>
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<p align="JUSTIFY">
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The policeman was down in a splash of red. Ten yards away, another one was kneeling in the road, hat off, both hands up at his face.
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</p>
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<p align="JUSTIFY">
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Shona's camera flashed, two quick blurts that seared the scene in his eyes.
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</p>
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<p align="JUSTIFY">
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A motorbike cop was on his knees, keeping the uniformed man flat. Another one was up at the tanker where two men were yelling and hauling and a rivulet of
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gasoline poured from a hose, channelled down the gutter and turned a greasy purple where it picked up some of the dirty blood.
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</p>
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<p align="JUSTIFY">
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The big cop's boots drummed the bitumen and he snorted, like a bullock in a slaughterhouse that doesn't know it's dead yet, a short and helpless gulp that
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was quiet and loud at the same time. It sounded bleak and deadly.
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</p>
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<p align="JUSTIFY">
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"Where's the fucking ambulance?"
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</p>
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<p align="JUSTIFY">
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The motorbike cop's voice was high and angry and scared.
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</p>
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<p align="JUSTIFY">
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Risk reached his shoulder and looked down, ignoring the smell of petrol and blood and the odd sound of heels rattling on the ground. The younger cop was
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whey- faced and paralysed with fright or shock and his hands fluttered like birds.
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</p>
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<p align="JUSTIFY">
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Risk knew the man.
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</p>
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<p align="JUSTIFY">
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Harry Stirling's eyes were wide and grey as the sky, pupils shrunk to points and his skin matched his eyes. The camera flashed again and every line stood
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out.
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</p>
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<p align="JUSTIFY">
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"What the fuck…" The motorbike cop started to swing round.
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</p>
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<p align="JUSTIFY">
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"Keep pressure on that," Risk said fast. "Push hard."
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</p>
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<p align="JUSTIFY">
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The bullet had gone in low, low enough to miss the heart, but it had carved its way through plenty. Blood pulsed out in slow dark heaves. Risk bulled in
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and Harry's eyes swung round, glanced over him, flickered vague recognition. Risk saw the dull realisation.
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</p>
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<p align="JUSTIFY">
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His mouth worked and he croaked. Pink spittle ran down his chin.
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</p>
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<p align="JUSTIFY">
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"Fake." One word and then a shuddery intake of breath.
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</p>
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<p align="JUSTIFY">
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"Stay still. Don't talk."
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</p>
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<p align="JUSTIFY">
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"Said it was fake." The voice was just a whisper. "Gun. Not fake."
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</p>
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<p align="JUSTIFY">
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The motorbike man turned round to Shona.
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</p>
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<p align="JUSTIFY">
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"Get that fucking camera away."
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</p>
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<p align="JUSTIFY">
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"Keep the pressure on," Risk said again. He had his tie off now and wadded it fast. Harry tried to sit up and the bike man forced him down again.
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</p>
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<p align="JUSTIFY">
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"Ambulance is on its way."
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</p>
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<p align="JUSTIFY">
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Risk slammed the wad of material against the pulse of blood and pressed hard, forcing his fingers in against the flow. Harry Stirling grunted again and
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coughed. Up the road, sirens came dopplering higher as they hit speed below the bridge and then there were people shoving in and Risk was surrounded.
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</p>
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<p align="JUSTIFY">
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"Right man. Well done. We got it."
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</p>
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<p align="JUSTIFY">
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"Everybody back." A female voice. He recognised that one too.
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</p>
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<p align="JUSTIFY">
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"Stick in, Harry. You'll be fine." That was a triumph of hope over evidence.
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</p>
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<p align="JUSTIFY">
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The big cop's eyes were rolling up as the medics jammed the tube in his arm.
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</p>
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<p align="JUSTIFY">
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"Get those people away."
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</p>
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<p align="JUSTIFY">
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Risk got to his feet and turned round, his hand slick and hot. The tie dripped onto the road and he dropped it there.
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</p>
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<p align="JUSTIFY">
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"Did you see what happened?" Inspector Katrine Miller had turned from the medics. White patrol cars screeched up one by one and blocked the road. She waved
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her hand to the two nearest uniforms.
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</p>
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<p align="JUSTIFY">
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"Clear them to the corner. Nobody gets within two hundred yards."
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</p>
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<p align="JUSTIFY">
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Risk shook his head. He needed a cigarette and a drink, in any order at all.
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</p>
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<p align="JUSTIFY">
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"That includes you, Risk."
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</p>
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<p align="JUSTIFY">
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She turned away, head angled in to the radio, talking fast.
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</p>
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<p align="JUSTIFY">
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That was it. He was out of the picture and Kate Miller was setting up a crime perimeter.
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</p>
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</div>
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</div>
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</body>
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</html>
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