Sowerbutt's Order

“Snuff him, Cocker, pull the trigger. Don’t have time to waste,” Sowerbutt snapped. The Essex farm-boy nodded and fired the Smith & Wesson pointing at the balding head of the ex-docker inches away. The man’s eyes looked shocked as blood, brain and bone splattered over the wall behind him. With a high-pitched sigh, the stocky man slumped onto the asphalt of the Whitechapel alleyway.
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