The man pointing a gun in my face looked familiar.
“Easy, old man. What’s the problem?” My voice trembled.
“Sorry, Paul.”
My mind raced. Sinaloa Cartel, DEA, FBI?
“How do you know my name?” I gripped the 9mm hidden by the open door.
“Paul Morrow, I’m Paul Morrow. You’re going to murder a man tomorrow. I’m not going to prison again.”
Heart racing, I squeezed the trigger once.
He dropped, bleeding from a hole in his forehead.
In an unusual-looking vehicle parked out front, I found his ID.
The name and birth date were the same as mine.
Tomorrow.
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