the Mancunian told me.“I’m sorry,” I croaked. “Do you have any water?”His eyes narrowed. “This some kind of a trick?”“No trick,” I said, and coughed again.The pendant seemed to be stuck in my throat. I was pretty sure it wasn’t. In fact, I was pretty sure it was on its way down to my gut already. But it sure as hell felt as if it was stuck in my throat and just the idea of it being there was enough to trouble me. I had an image of the pendant completely blocking my oesophagus, like a freakish valve. It was nonsense, I hoped, but I wanted to drink something to make certain.“Pass us that can,” the Mancunian said, to the Italian.The Italian was driving. I was sat in the back of a beaten-up Peugeot 205 GTI with the Mancunian alongside me and his gun pointed at my hip. We were really motoring. You want the definition of danger? Try fighting not to choke while having a gun held on you and being driven through the most congested streets in Paris by a distracted Italian in an eighties pocket rocket.The Italian downshifted and veered out around a taxicab onto the wrong side of the road.
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