Novel & Cerita John Marston From Red Dead Redemption

I said. Jaxon dropped a bag near the door and looked around the warehouse with the expression of someone evaluating it professionally. He was the same too — big, amber-eyed, the kind of presence that made rooms feel smaller. He looked at Marcus first. “You military?” he said. “Ranger,” Marcus said. “You?” Jaxon considered this. “Chaos professional.” Marcus looked at him for a beat. Then, very slightly, the corner of his mouth moved. “That checks out,” he said.

If Johnny had a drop of Native American blood in him, then Marco was a green-skinned, antennae-sporting alien. They'd all grown up in the same area surrounding Moab, Utah, which was how Danny and his older brother got involved with Johnny and his guys. The ironic thing was, Marco's family were all Navajo. When John started wearing the ridiculous get-up a couple years ago, Marco had wanted so badly to bust his ass. But then the shit with Danny's older brother happened and touching Johnny meant risking the investigation. "Haven't seen you around." Marco crossed his arms across his chest and turned toward Danny. What the hell was the kid thinking? Johnny was bad news of the drugs and hard time

The room smelled of sweat and whiskey, of regret and desperation. I turned my head slightly, watching him sleep, his face relaxed in the dim glow of the bedside lamp. He looked peaceful—satisfied. Meanwhile, I felt nothing but irritation gnawing at the edges of my patience. I hadn’t wanted this. I hadn’t enjoyed a single second of it. But I had needed to do it. Marlo wasn’t just another of Fernando Ramirez’s men—he was one of his highest-ranking lieutenants. He was a man with influence. A man with access. And that access was exactly what I, as well as the FBI, needed if I wanted to bring Fernando down.

On getting there I am surprised to see Dante sitting with Luciano. He does not drink much alcohol and hates bars and people so he prefers to have a drink in his study at home. Since he's here it's either Luciano called him or he is in a mood. Fuck, I hope it's not the latter because Dante's moods are extremely unpredictable and often have grave consequences. His moods often revolve around Caroline Fletcher. She's the love of his life and much like me he lost her. However, he wasn't so lucky as Caroline is married to real estate millionaire Aiden Black.

“Do you even know how to fire that pistol?” Trailing behind Jim, Marcus chuckled. “This is a nine millimeter Glock Gen five. And I’m an ex-intel Marine sharpshooter, so shut it or I’ll put a bullet in you somewhere that hurts like hell but doesn’t kill you.” Ahead, Jim chuckled. “Okay, fine. Pick up the pace, Semper fi.” Behind him, Marcus huffed a laugh and grinned. He had to admit, he liked Jim Erikson. "How much of a lead do you think he's got?" he queried when further on, Jim knelt, piercing blue eyes scanning the ground.

Uncanny. The parking lot gaped vacantly with only a few vehicles remaining to mark the sparse occupants staying at the hotel, most of them oblivious to the life-and-death battle that had raged. And, of those who remained, none were watching. From the shadows trotted Marc, still in the form of his red-coated wolf, the bullet wound in his side clotted over but a reminder and punishment of what he'd done. Unable to help himself, he paused in front of a pockmarked hotel door, number seven, where the stench of bleach had wiped the blood away, a blood he'd drawn while under the control of another.

I scrambled through the alley and launched myself into the sedan, my head bumping someone’s thigh. Given that thigh was wearing expensive pants, I began to worry that I was being tricked and had just gone through this whole ordeal only to find Masterson was playing another one of his sick games. However, when I looked up, I saw Jake, the guy from the funeral. “Hi,” he said, his expression as bewildered as I felt. “Hi,” I replied. “So, apparently Masterson wants to kill me. I’m getting the impression he’s not terribly fond of you,” Jake said.

Names, locations, movement logs. “Ray Morrison,” Marcus said. “We have had him in custody for eleven days.” I looked at the screen. “Eleven days,” Dominic said from the window. His voice was neutral but his arms were crossed, which with Dominic meant something. “I know,” I said. “Do you?” Marcus asked. I looked at him. “Because from where I’m sitting,” Marcus continued, carefully, “we have the man who killed Rylan Stark, who held Elara in a compound in Colombia, who sold her to Dmitri Volkov, who has been connected to trafficking networks across four countries.” He paused.