Bridger woke on the bathroom floor and is just realizing how he got there.
He shot to a sitting position, cursing when his head connected with the underside of the sink. Agony tore through him. Mother fu—
He drew to his knees, trying to shake off the hurt without moving. The bastard landed one blow, and Bridger had gone down like a sack of potatoes. He could have lived his whole life without knowing a desk-jockey who spent his leisure time grading papers and stalking women from the front seat of his car could bring him down with such ease.
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