There is no time for, no hope for, no sense in negotiation. Even as the killer pivots, even as he grins his Joker grin, in spite of the distance and the light and the circumstances, Nameless opens fire, aiming for upper chest, throat, head. In quick succession, he squeezes off one round, two, three, tempted to empty the magazine. But he’s got to concentrate on countering the recoil, on keeping the muzzle from pulling up, get off four shots in two seconds, nail the bastard quick before the blade can slash. With ricochets to worry about, smooth dripstone everywhere, the less lead flying the
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