Tain held a pistol toward me. The black gel of the handle pulsed, waiting to be gripped.
“Better take this,” she said.
I shook my head. “I never use them.”
We sat in an unmarked police cruiser, the steering wheel packed away in the dashboard. Tain’s face was a pale shimmer in the cool blue light of the car’s entertainment system.
“Your file says you are weapons trained.”
“Yeah,” I said, “I got one of those cannons at home, locked in my kitchen drawer.”
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