The drive takes about twenty minutes.
Twenty minutes of imagining every single thing I'm going to do to Ted Tomlinson when I get my hands on him.
I know I'm going against orders, know I should wait for the club, do this properly, follow protocol.
I don't care.
This isn't about the club.
This isn't about protocol.
This is about Ingrid.
This is about the woman I love lying broken in my bed while the man who did it to her walks free.
This is about war.
And in war, sometimes you have to move fast.
Move alone.
Move without permission.
The address leads me to a neighborhood that looks like every other suburban neighborhood in Florida.
Neat lawns.
Clean driveways.
Houses that cost more than most people make in five years.
The normalcy of it makes me sick.
A monster lives here.
Sleeps here.
Eats breakfast and watches TV and kisses his wife goodnight.
All while trafficking children and beating women half to death.
I park down the street and watch the house.
One car in the driveway—a white SUV.
No sign of Ted's vehicle.
The wife is home alone.
Perfect.
I check my weapons.
Gun.
Knife.
Chloroform and a rag in my pocket.
