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Thorn whirled, assured himself that Mariah was out of his way, then fired. Ainsley had missed, but Thorn's bullet hit its mark. Ainsley fell to the ground, clutching his chest below his left shoulder. |
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Thorn sagged, the pistol he had taken from the box and hidden beneath his jacket now barely dangling from his fingers. Relief turned his bones as formless as the mud beneath his boots. Mariah was unharmed. |
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But he had shot Ainsley, the friend of his youth. The one who had stood by him through all his adversity. Had encouraged him. Had tried to convince him that what had happened each time had not been his fault. |
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The one who had turned on him so completely, so incomprehensibly. |
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He hurried to Ainsley's side as swiftly as possible on such insubstantial limbs and knelt before his bloodied compatriot. He touched his chest. It rose and fell, but irregularly. Thorn began removing the uniform that hid the wound he had made. "Ainsley." His voice was little more than an emotional rasp. "Do not die, my friend." |
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