““Shit,” I mutter. Slowly, I adjust my hands around the .38 that’s resting in my lap. I’m not sure how much longer I should wait. Farren said to use the gun if things go badly. Is this too much time? Should I get out of the car and go rap on the limo window? I don’t know. I mean, how long should a meeting like this take? I glance down at the weapon in my hands. I found the gun easily enough. It was right where Farren promised it would be—under the passenger seat. I retrieved it the second I was ...back in the car, right after I closed the door. I’ll use this gun if I need to. In fact, shooting Dawson would probably bring me a special kind of joy. But my thoughts are just fantasies. Truthfully, I’m scared. Scared for me, scared for Farren, and scared this thing Farren is involved in is much more complex than I ever imagined. Four more minutes pass, and, to my relief, Farren emerges from the limo. He appears to be fine, so my hold on the gun loosens. When he opens the driver’s-side door and slides in, I ask, “How’d it go?”MoreLessRead More Read Less
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