The first line: Olivia typed the ammunition data into the keypad on her sniper rifle and then nestled her cheek against the stock’s custom-fit pad, waiting for the information to be processed and her target to come into view.
The last line I've written so far with many more to go: “I’m going to kill the son of a bitch,” Olivia muttered as she sauntered back to the couch with apple martini in hand held high.
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