“Britain’s prime minister is now in need of urgent medical attention. Perhaps we should call some medical students from Balliol Trump College to check up on him.”
“You won’t even live one day…,” Lywood screamed, clutching his mangled left hand with his right.
“Next time, the Merlot goes into your windpipe, and you’ll feel like you’re being waterboarded. So, let’s keep it classy, Prime Minister.”
But Lywood wasn’t ready to concede, so Chartreuse hit him in the throat. Hunter had shown her how not to kill a man. And more. Lywood fell forward onto the parquet floor, fighting for air.
Clara looked down at Lywood, not a hint of pity in her eyes, “Last chance, Prime Minister. Otherwise you’ll be following in the inglorious footsteps of Spencer Perceval, the only prime minister in British his
