CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

To Live and Die for Dixie

A small tendril of smoke curled up from the end of the suppressor, which I had once more pointed down at the floor. The machined steel part had done its first job well. There had been almost no sound. Possibly, a short stiff handclap, but nothing more. With the exception of Hathoot’s squirming body, emitting mewling cries of shock and pain, the tableau was frozen. Both Don and Dutch stood, unmoving, from their places upon entering the room. Professor Khromov cupped small enamel boxes in his hands, both still extended before him as if to showcase the pieces of art. A side door then opened.