“It’s like hewantedsomeone to find whatever is on here.”
There are various zip files and folders, along with a couple of grainy screenshots of spreadsheets on the desktop, but I bypass them all.
Mila points to the screen. “Here. There’s a surveillance folder.”
I click on the folder, and immediately a window pops up with a dozen video thumbnails, all timestamped.
My stomach churns as I notice the timestamp on one of the last videos.
It’s from the night Max died.
“Is this it?” Mila whispers.
I don’t answer. Instead, I double-click on the thumbnail, and we both lean in as the video opens onto a wide-angle shot of Max’s living room. It’s dark, with only the glow from his computer monitors lighting the space.
“Max,” Mila chokes as he appears on the screen, his back to us, with his phone pressed to his ear.
I reach for her hand as my own throat thickens with emotion. “I can watch it alone if you don’t feel up to i?—”
Words lodge in my throat as the door to Max’s apartment flies open.
“Oh, my god!” Mila cries as three men storm into the apartment, dressed in black with balaclavas covering their faces.
One is brandishing a crowbar, and another has a gun aimed right at Max’s head.
I’m frozen as I watch two of the men grab Max by the shoulders and throw him against the wall.
He tries to fight back, but something is off about him. Almost as if he’s already in pain.
I peer closer, noticing some heavy bruising on his cheek. “What on earth?”
Where did he get those bruises?
“Ciara,” Mila gasps.
I force my attention back to the screen as Max is thrown to the floor and pinned down by the guy with the crowbar. I lean forward and turn up the volume to try to catch what they’re saying.
Mila looks like she’s about to pass out, but she doesn’t tell me to turn the video off, so we continue to watch the last few seconds of Max’s life tick by.
The third man, whom I assume to be the leader, crouches in front of Max. Their faces are only a few inches apart, but Max doesn’t look afraid. “I need access to Ronan Sullivan’s accounts. You give me what I need, and this ends quickly.”
Max only spits in his face.
I wince as the leader wipes his face with the back of his hand, which has an intricate Celtic knot tattooed onto the skin, before balling it into a fist and slamming it into Max’s cheek over and over again.
Max collapses back against the floor as blood starts to pour from his nose and mouth, his dark hair slick with sweat, but he still doesn’t say a word.
“Max,” Mila whispers.
Before I can offer my friend any word of comfort, the leader shouts something, and the next thing we know, a gunshot blasts through the speakers.
Mila staggers off the bed and rushes toward the bathroom to empty her stomach in the toilet.
I have the urge to do the same, but I can’t look away. My eyes are locked on Max’s lifeless body, watching as a pool of blood starts to spread behind his head.
Only when the men file out of the apartment like nothing ever happened do I press pause on the video.
My hands are shaking so badly I can barely feel them.
