COLT
"Which one of you," I say, voice low, calm, deadly, "wants to tell me how the f**k this happened?"
The room is stifling. Thick with sweat, fear, and the metallic tang of blood.
Nic watches from the corner, arms crossed, unreadable, silent. He doesn’t need to speak. He knows how this ends.
And so do they.
I grind my boot against the informant’s face, pressing him harder into the filth-streaked floor.
Fuck.
I miss this feeling.
The sheer control. The slow, dragging seconds where a man realizes just how deep in the hole he is. Where he understands—too late—that he’s not walking out of here whole.
The bastard beneath me sputters, fingers clawing at my ankle, desperate. I don’t ease up. I push down harder, letting my weight sink in, and letting him feel it. His ribs strain. His b
