The basement smelled like blood and dust.
Adam stood over Samuel Vance's body, the gun still in his hand, his ears ringing from the shot. The photographs on the wall stared back at him—Cindy, Volkov, Victor, Cross, Harmon, Rosa. His own face, connected to all of them by red string. A web of pain and revenge.
He holstered the weapon.
His hands weren't shaking. That surprised him.
He called Miller.
“It's done. Samuel Vance. He's dead.”
A long pause. “Where are you?”
“The farmhouse on the outskirts. The last known address.”
“Don't move. Don't touch anything. I'm sending a team.”
“I'm not going anywhere.”
Adam hung up and sat on the bottom step of the basement stairs. He stared at the body, at the blood pooling on the concrete floor, at the photographs watching him like silent judges
