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18

18

AS WE DRIVE to Bucksnort, Mary Sue turns to me and asks, “You know you’re going to have to kill him right?”

“Who? Tom Cruise? Yes, I know. It was written in the stars, that someday our paths will cross and I will have to kill him. I’m okay with this fate. In fact, I welcome it. The smug little prick deserves it.”

“No, you silly ninny,” she chides, rolling her eyes. “Duke. You’re going to have to kill him at the end of this.”

I know where she’s going with this, but I’m not going to make it easy for her.

“No shit, Sherlock. That’s the whole reason we’re here, isn’t it?”

“Yes, exactly. And if you’re starting to like him, won’t that make it harder for you to kill him?”

“For the last time, I don’t like him. He is a backwoods, trailer-park hick, and the only reason I’m seeing him at all is because of the mission. When I slit his throat, it will be no different to me than the hundreds of other people I’ve killed while on assignment.”

“Fine, fine. So you say. But, just hypothet
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