"You see, we already have a strong democratic tradition here in Kobekistan," he claimed."What do you mean, democratic?" Sharon demanded with a sinking feeling that she was walking into a trap."Unlike some other heads of state who shall be nameless, I do not move about my country in what is virtually a tank disguised as a motor car, and surrounded by dozens of so-called Secret Service bodyguards. We have a long tradition that Emirs who are disliked do not live very long; someone rids the country of a bad ruler quite quickly. I must be thought of as being both good at my job and popular to have lasted twenty years." Well," she retorted, "You may be popular in your beautiful Golden Palace surrounded by sycophants and a harem full of women who depend on you for their very lives, but I bet you are not so popular out in the slums."This last remark annoyed the Emir a little and he decided to show her how wrong she was."Come with me," he said, standing up and striding off down the corridor to. *************** The Glock felt heavy in his hand. It was old, but it was his favorite. Polymer frame. Ferritic nitrocarburizing. It wouldn’t rust. He was racking his brain, trying to work out how many rounds he’d used. Eleven? Twelve? He could check, but he didn’t have time. He had to make it to the dumpster. Or he was dead. Assume twelve. That means three rounds left. I’ve got to make it to the dumpster. He took a deep breath. The Package was at his feet. That’s what he called him: The Package. No point getting personal. They wouldn’t know each other for long. He might even be dead soon. Who knew? No point being on a first name basis with a corpse. ‘Get the fuck up,’ he said. ‘We have to make it to the dumpster. Can you make it?’ The Package was breathing heavily. He was out of condition. He nodded. ‘I….think….so,’ he said between gasps. Fat fuck. Why can’t they send me to get someone fit for once? Even just healthy. Someone who could at least run more than ten meters without.
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