‘No, That’s it, thanks. I’ll stay here till sundown. No need for you to wait.’
Low held out his hand.
‘Sorry about the Brecons’
Martin shook it
‘No sweat, I survived’
Low laughed, a short bark.
‘Yeah, that’s what we do. We fucking survive. Stay lucky. Mike.’
The fist of god, Frederick Forsyth, chapter five
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