” “And you?” asked David Courtlaw. “I had the pleasure of—er—meeting you more than once, I believe. You’re the only person I’ve really given good, straight, unselfish thought to. Farewell. Then, as he was trying to bite through the rope, I told him, ‘That’s for 107 Traci, motherfucker. You’re mine. ‘Who kills who?’ ‘Rot in hell,’ he snarled, panting, and managed to push himself forward and leap off the dais, running for the safety of the far aisle by the wall.
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