If I do, I’ll press the Glock to my heart and end it right there.
But not yet.
First, I’m going after the person who took everything from me.
I will take everything from him.
I will end him.
And then…
I will end myself.
Chapter 66
Milo
Two months later.
My fist connects with his face again.
And again.
And again.
I feel nothing.
I keep hitting a body that’s long dead, because he was too weak. He deserved more, and the motherfucker couldn’t take it. He died before I was finished.
My phone keeps ringing.
I ignore it.
I hit the cadaver again, my knuckles splitting further.
How is it possible that I keep killing men, over and over again, and the one fucker I need is still out of my reach?
Every time we think we have a lead, the person dies.
Or chooses death.
I used the best methods. Every extraction technique I know. Things that break people in minutes.
But not them it seems.
These men have more to lose than their lives if they speak. This one, for instance, was more afraid of that ghost of a man than he was of me. More afraid of what would happen to his wife and daughters than of what I was doing to him.
He didn’t say a word.
They always break once you push them far enough. There is always a threshold. Pain has a language, and eventually it makes them talk.
I nudge the body aside with my foot and finally still. Blood coats my hands. It has dried across my knuckles, streakedbeneath my nails. It is probably on my face and my clothes are heavy with it.
I don’t bother wiping any of it away when I pick up the phone.
I don’t even check who’s calling.
“Speak,” I say, flatly.
