John Marston From Red Dead Redemption Novelas e Histórias

He wore a patch over his ruined eye, but he thought it actually helped his image. "I guess that from what I've heard, I owe you thanks," Red said coolly. She would take time in assessing the man's character. He had won over the rest of the Strays already, and that counted for something . . . but not everything. "Does . . . does the . . . slaughterhouse have an address?" Jane asked, uncomfortable with all the tension. "Yeah I suppose." Tarloh looked a bit perplexed. "Why?" Red gripped her girlfriend's hand. "Are you sure this is what you want? We could find you . . ."

Standing around the glowing, holographic tactical table were the leaders of the new digital world. Marcus (DragonSlayer99), the towering Paladin and Commander of the Ghost Army, leaned heavily on his silver broadsword. Next to him stood Jax, the glitch-kid, spinning the golden Admin Key around his index finger. And completing the triad was Brog, the massive NPC blacksmith, who looked incredibly out of place among the players, yet carried an aura of undeniable authority. "Wraith," Marcus nodded respectfully as Ren approached the table. "Report," Ren said, getting straight to the point. The phantom weight of the M-99 Archangel sniper rifle settled comfortably on his digital back.

Unless you had reached a near-monopoly position in this line of work, with unrivaled power and resources, like Truman, Robin, and Victor, no one would dare to destroy their own reputation. The arms dealer in central Colombia had done a few deals with the Ghost Gang, and it was always Mr. Marcus in charge. Mr. Marcus trusted them, but now that there's a problem, someone must be playing dirty behind the scenes. The wind was blowing heavily at the dock tonight, whistling through the air. The strong wind swept Mr. Marcus' black overcoat, giving him an arrogant and dominant aura in the night breeze. His eyes were fixed on the calm sea surface, and all the firearms were already packed.

Mayor Perez winced in pain, "What are you talking about? Who are you?" "I'm Carlo Don El Marco, that's right but, you don't know the true story about me. I'm not his legitimate son, I'm a bastard from another woman and not entitled to climb to the cartel throne. They treated me like sh+t and sent me far from home to a battle of no return while the legitimate son is groomed to become the boss of the cartel operation. I am much better than him! He doesn't even know how to handle a gun but me, I've killed men, a lot em' "

Jace Ronan’s rut should have burned out after three days. Five, at the ugly edge. We are past the edge and walking on the underside now. Maps cover the table in the command room like skins. Border marks, choke points, old poacher trails, new Redmaw tracks burned in with charcoal. I’ve redrawn the same black spruce notch three times, and the paper still insists Redmaw is gathering there like flies on meat. Mara leans against the doorframe, arms folded, gaze knife-sharp. “You keep staring at the same line like it’s going to move for you.”

I tell Brady. He turns to look at me when I say this. Dru, Carl, and he are standing around watching things get set up. Carl helps just cause he is huge and is extra muscle. I tell them what I saw a few minutes ago. Brady just rolls his eyes. He may have tried to hide it, but I saw the small smile on his face. “The right woman can change a man,” Carl grunts out.

Her heartbreak and love for her daughter had almost, for the first time in his life, made him sorry for what he had done. He’d miss her. Miss her showing up at the station with determination and miss the way she had confided in his wife. Winnie would cry her eyes out when she learned. She’d beg him to throw himself even harder into Aleta’s murder, and he would do that gladly, making sure everything was perfectly covered up. So yes, he’d miss Grim Marie. Just as he missed her Little Dead Red. He reached into his desk drawer and fondled the tiny silver dimple piercings he kept hidden in there. Then he closed the drawer and turned away.

Reading it would mean wanting it. One by one, Johnny introduced the rest of the squad. “That’s Ryder—computer prodigy, though he spends more time on illegal bets than hacking.” “Cole—our bomb guy. Don’t give him liquor, unless you want half the base blown up.” “Those two are Nina and Marco. Don’t let the cuddling fool you—they’ll gut a wolf before breakfast.” “Gideon—brooding type. Don’t expect small talk.” “Then there’s Old Man Harris. Lost his wife and kids to rogues. Been chasing a deathwish ever since, but the bastard won’t die.”

The window was already down, and the guy looked at me with an expression that was trying very hard to appear confused. “You’ve been following her.” “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I rested one hand against the roof. “We have your plate, your face, and twelve minutes of you following the same motorcycle through turns she had no reason to make.” “I was just driving.” From beside her bike, Sable called, “You took Marston.” The man’s eyes moved toward her. Jarek caught it immediately. “Look at me.” Sable crossed her arms. “Nobody takes Marston unless they live there, they’re lost, or they’re following somebody who deliberately took a stupid route to see if they’d follow.”

But intact. Jonas pushed it into the sea with Elias. Mara just wanted to get in when she heard something. Very quiet. Not with the ears. In her head. A voice. Warm. Gentle. Trust me. Lena. Turn around. Mara died. She slowly turned. On the top of the cliff, in the red light of the breaking island, stood a figure. A man. Thin. Damage. But right. John. Your father. He lived. And in his arms he held something.