His boss has taken over the flesh trade in both AfghanistanandPakistan. Flexing my shoulder, I wince as the long scar across my chest pulls taut. Rayan’s men gave it to me. Before they waterboarded me and tortured me with live jumper cables for two fucking days.
“Tell us who you are working with!”
Joke was on them. I work alone. If they’d believed me, maybe they would have kept their intestinesinsidetheir bodies.
I yank the rag from Smoker’s mouth. “You have a family?”
He nods.
“What about the guys inside?”
Another nod.
I drag him back to the warehouse and prop him up against the wall.
“Call them out here. Make it easy on me, and no one suffers. You have my word. But if you warn them, not only will I keep you alive, I’ll drop you on Rayan’s doorstep with a thank you note and a dozen cookies.”
“M-my phone,” he stammers. “The first number.”
I dial, then drop the ancient device in his lap and take aim with my M4.
“Someone’s coming. Two trucks. Get out here. Now!” He lowers his head onto his bent knees as the door bangs open.
Three shots, and the threat is neutralized. Another three to make damn sure no one gets back up again, and I return to Smoker. “You sure about this?”
Tears shine on his cheeks as he peers up at me. “It is the only way to keep my wife and son safe.”
“Close your eyes.”
One hundred and six. No, a hundred and nine. I don’t regret any of my kills the past two years. Every single one of them would have ended my life given half the chance. This guy is no different.
So why am I hesitating?
Because I’m tired. Because no matter how many lives I save, it’ll never be enough. Because when I heard her voice, I remembered what it was like to feel.
The shot tears through Smoker’s skull. He jerks once, a single, gentle breath escaping his lips as his heart stops.
Inside, the women and children huddle in one large cage, the men in another. Unwashed, with tear-stained faces, ripped clothing, and almost identical expressions—shock mixed with fear.
“Safe,” I say in Urdu, Pashto, then English. “You’re all safe now.”
* * *
Twelve hours later,I dump the van on the outskirts of Hyderabad and sling my duffel bag over my shoulder. It took forever to get the twenty-seven men, women, and children I rescued across the border to India. But they’re safe now. Delivered to a former member of the SAS I met while rescuing Lisette, Mateen, and Joey. Matt will get them back to their homes or set them up with new identities in India.
Finding an internet cafe, I pay for an hour, and sink into a shitty chair in a cubicle that looks like it’s about to topple over. It took me nine months to work my way through the list of buyers I stole from Shapur. In the eighteen months since, I’ve found the worst of humanity all over the Middle East, and picked them off one at a time. So many that I’ve made a name for myself. Or a nickname, anyway.
The Viper.
I should be using my time here to pull up a map of Multan. Familiarize myself with the terrain around Rayan’s home. Instead, I connect to a secure email server and find the photo Ford sent me six months ago. Lisette stands on the bank of a river, her arm around Mateen’s shoulders. The kid has grown almost a foot. Lisette’s dark hair—once long enough, it brushed her ass—is now cut in a short, angled bob. Her smile lights up her whole face. She’s no longer rail thin, with soft curves under her black sweater.
They look so different. So…happy.
“Enough.” The word sticks in my throat. Nothing will ever be enough where Lisette is concerned.
I log off, wipe the browser history, and head for the nearest pub. Alcohol won’t silence my demons, but if I drink enough, maybe I won’t dream.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
