Predator. Escape from Tarkov
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“Right,” I say hoarsely. I’m finding it hard to talk, but I guess for the bad guys my croaking sounds scary enough. At any rate, the two of them flinch when I speak.
“I don’t want to see your faces round here again, ever! Understood? Otherwise…” I look meaningfully towards the door. “Any questions?”
They both shake their heads, almost in tempo.
“Turn out your pockets!”
All sorts of crap falls out onto the floor. Huh, the wanker had another knife stuck in his belt.
“You fucker!” The words came out with some feeling. “I should have shot you straight away! Be grateful for my good nature.”
The two of them vanished into thin air.
Among the junk they left behind was a pretty good knife. I’ll keep that. It’s certainly better than my pocket knife. Some hardtack and a couple of tins of food. Not too bad.
I move over to the third member of the merry band. So, then, what did they call you? Big Misha, wasn’t it? Well, size didn’t help you here. It wasn’t what I’d planned, and I can’t say I wanted to shoot you to be honest. That’s just how it went down. The door slammed open, and my finger twitched automatically. It just so happened that my finger was on the trigger at the time. Basically, it’s bad luck, old boy. But then I find he has a revolver in his pocket. Not such bad luck after all, at least for me.
I hear movement, turn to my right, and I’m looking at the black hole of a gun barrel. It’s the shopkeeper’s regular guard. He’s calm and composed, holding his gun with confidence, unlike some of us.
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