Chapter Eight
Callan had been one moment too late, preoccupied listening to the lad, then to make out the life-ending glint of the whetted dagger.
The fragrant sharp swirls of nicotine floated through the sultry air, playing with his nostrils just as the knife had flown unbidden into the body of the bony urchin.
‘Hey!’ Callan shouted as he flicked his torch on, flashing it into the darkness.
There was nothing there apart from the yellow illuminated eyes of rodents. Not a man in sight.
As if he’d stick around.
‘Damn it!’
He ran over, flashing his torch further into the darkness. A few figures crouched there, huddled into moth-eaten blankets.
His torch highlighted a piece of paper, weighed down by a stone. It had a message printed on it.
“You Will Be Next.”
He pocketed the note, be
