I stood in my study room holding a glass containing whiskey. My thoughts had been busy thinking of the best way to deal with the mad dog sitting in my living room drinking my expensive whiskey.
Mr. Wayne had earlier told me to play nice, but still I felt an urge growing inside of me which wanted me to pull a trigger immediately at Mr. Campbell without asking his reasons for tricking me to do his crazy job.
I looked at Mr. Wayne once more. He was still covered in shock, probably wondering how the hell I got my hands on pictures of the murder he secretly committed three years ago. If those pictures were sent to the authorities, he would be a dead man, maybe charged with murder and use of fake ID. He might never see the real world in a very long time.
A knock came at the door, followed by
