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Summary
Price’s M1911.
MacTavish’s hand snaps behind him, to the matching holster looped through his belt. His blood chills when he realises it’s empty.
“Hello, John.”
He freezes, his breath stilling in his lungs, and he drags the deadweight of his eyes across the concrete, over the debris, until they fall on the boots of the man as he turns to face him.
“We’ve gotta talk,” the man wearing his face announces.
Series
- Part 15 of soft’s twt threads
