Tor's knife opens his throat before he can make a sound.
The cigarette falls.
The body follows.
Blood pools on the cracked concrete, black in the moonlight.
We step over him and keep moving.
Room 11 is our first target.
I can hear voices inside now.
Clearer.
Louder.
Laughter.
The clink of bottles.
Theyarehaving a fucking party.
Bastards!
Rage burns in my chest, but I keep it controlled.
Channel it.
Focus it.
Tor looks at me.
I nod.
He kicks the door in.
Wood splinters.
The frame cracks.
I'm through the gap before it bounces off the wall.
Three men are inside.
One at a table, counting cash—stacks of bills, blood money from selling children.
One on the couch, beer in hand, watching some show on a cracked TV.
One coming out of the bathroom, still zipping his fly.
They freeze for half a second.
Half a second of shock.
Half a second of realization.
Half a second too long.
