Wolverton

Wolverton is disappointed that the room doesn’t have any windows.  He spreads his hands and tries to look convincing.  “Look, I’m sorry about the job, but it wasn’t my fault it got hosed.  Your man Shen, he-”

She nods at someone behind Wolverton.  The chair goes out from underneath him, sending him sprawling onto the floor.  His world becomes the dark, cold barrel of a revolver being pushed into his forehead; the click as the hammer of which goes back is like the Word of God.

Wolverton’s fingers close on something that was once a USB stick, pinned to his lapel.

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~ by Electro-mechanical Man on March 2, 2011.

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