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When the shot crossed Moralez's head, the whole apartment became a chaos.

Clark, who was trying to get away from the pocket-knife threatening her eye, gave a reverse head-butt in Richard Holt and kicked the coffee table up. The client screamed, his beautiful nose bleeding. Glasses flew, men shouted and Hopkins, hands tied behind his back, ran after Clark.

Another shot from Spankin', another dead guy on the ground.

Shouts and orders stayed behind when they reached the building's corridor. Clark pushed the emergency exit door with her shoulder, and they were greeted with the cold and inhabited air of the gray staircase.

Gunshots flew above their heads. Hopkins was sweating when they reached the tenth floor, Holt's thugs still swearing and running after them.

"Admit that," Clark started, breathlessly, "we know how to make a show, handsome."

He would've laughed if they weren't so dipped in shit.

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