He gives you just enough time to land the second round somewhere in his right side. Not fatal probably, but it will slow him down. You'll take what you can get.
You'll have to. Mr. M spins and is off again, clutching his wound. As you stumble and wheeze out onto the sidewalk again, Mr. M is gone. With the Ruger tucked into your pants, and your hands resting exhaustedly on your aching knees you see no other alleys or open sewer hatches to hide in. But the No. 13 bus is just pulling away, and you know its route well. Last stop for number 13: the hotel at Parkplace, right next to the boardwalk.
Forget it, he's gone. Better make $80,000 some other way.
RATINGS BREAKDOWN
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