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Hands shackled Hands shackled to an overturned chair, blood pulsing from his shoulder, he recognized the logic—mother shoots daughter, daughter shoots protégé. Symbolic revenge was a bitch. “Freud would have volumes to say—” “Penis envy, possibly transference.” She cocked the pistol. Two shots, he’d counted. “I’d wager erotic obsession.” Eyes alight, she knelt down and brushed her lips against his. Testing him with a warm and curious tongue, she teased him with licks and bites. Her experiment complete, she pulled away. She reached for her walkie-talkie. “Mountaineer,” she said, eyes still ardent. “I’ve got Sark right where I want him.”
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