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... wall, even though the violent tremor in his fingers begged for an outlet. No — he moved in almost slow motion, lethal and silent, slinging the shotgun over his shoulder, tightening the straps on the rifle across his back.
His sidearm kissed his hip, two extra mags tucked into his vest.
His breath came in short bursts, like it had to fight its way past the ice in his chest.
They were gone.
Taken.
And someone was going to pay in blood.
Winter didn’t ...
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