Chapter Twenty-OneThe gun is heavy in my hand, making me painfully aware of my bruised shoulder. Gritting my teeth, I ignore the pain and step toward Bogof’s enormous back.
Pressing the barrel against the mountain of flesh, I hiss, “If you move another inch or make a peep, you die.”
Bogof freezes in place.
I drag the barrel across his back to press it to his head—though I’m forced to rise on tiptoes to actually reach it. Channeling Clint Eastwood, I whisper, “That’s a .44 Magnum, punk.”
The orc raises his bulging arms above his head. “I should’ve just let you drown,” he snarls under his breath.
Did he just say what I think he said? All this adrenaline is making it hard to focus, but I think Bogof just admitted to giving me the inexplicable CPR—and likely also pushing me into the water
