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Sarah glanced towards the side table, standing to the left, just a few feet from the rundown coach she was sitting on.
Her little silver .22 pistol lay on its side, against a tray with scattered remains of marijuana seeds and other telltale residue from the now empty bag she got off a client, for payment for a few minutes of ‘social service.’ She made a mental note to get a replacement bag, but this time making sure she was not stuck with seeds, stems and added leaves from someone’s bush garden.
Instinctively she moved softly towards the table, keeping her eyes, both on the door and on the little .22, just as the door flew open with a loud crash.
She dropped the dog and lounged towards the table, restraining a scream of fear. Out of the corner of her eyes she saw the huge, masculine figure moving swiftly across the room, heading her off from the table. Both bodies slammed into each other, both hands grappling for the pistol. Sarah winced as the large frame slammed into her back. She felt her breath whooshing from her lungs. The shoulder that slammed against the table hurts like hell, but she knew she had to keep a clear mind….