LaraDiego no longer aimed the gun at my belly. He strained to target the end of his weapon at my heart. Then higher, at my head. The tip of his gun never aligned with my body, though, because I kept fighting and wrestling to get away.He kept me close, and I punched and dodged. His arm reached out to grab me, but I kicked and twisted. Holding his arm and pushing it away, I prevented him from bringing the aim back to me.I didn't know how he could still be breathing and fighting so well with a steak knife in his ribs. He had a beefy torso, but a blade was a blade. Blood leaked from him.With the fast blur of avoiding his gun, I lacked the opportunity to hit harder. I couldn't grab the knife and use it again, and as I smacked into the edge of the table, I tried to find another. Groping the surface of the table, I sought another knife. Hell, a fork. A spoon. Anything. My fingers slipped over the cloth, finding nothing.As I tried to blindly find another weapon, I lost my concentration o
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