CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

Beat to Quarters

The cylindrically machined suppressor was cold in my hand, where it had remained since Cherno returned it to my possession. It felt bitterly cold. I slipped it, with some difficulty, into my front left pants’ pocket, before opening the hatch to the bridge. The suppressor bulged outward, but my shirt, hanging loose over two belt…

CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

Beat to Quarters

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