Bill recalled his only encounter with a couple of Hunt's henchmen shortly after his indictment. He’d tried to shake his pursuers but his lungs burned and his breath had shortened. They quickly cornered him. A nearby street lamp flickered overhead and then went black, as if it knew what to expect. One of the men had grabbed his arms so roughly he almost dislocated Bill’s shoulder. The other produced an antique knife from his pocket. The blade gleamed as it caught the reflection from the overhanging street light. The excitement from the men was palpable, raw. Bill drew in a sharp breath as the knife-wielding man stepped forward and plunged the blade into the soft area of his left shoulder. He remembered how easily the blinding hot pain had completely disarmed him.
A fucking antique knife, he thought. There were easier ways to kill him. The attack came with a verbal warning attached.
‘Hunt wants you to remember this.’
He idly touched the area where the knife had penetrated his skin. Although it was fully repaired with no sign of a scar, he remembered exactly how it had felt when the blade tore through his muscle and poked out the other side.
Thinking about that night sent a shiver through his body. With shaky hands, he picked up the DPad. The tremors were worse. He inhaled deeply and slowly released a breath. His stomach felt sick, but his body was buzzing with caffeine-induced adrenaline. He wished for it all to be over, so he could get his answers.
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