Drio sprinted toward the back of the store, Rohan and I pounding after him. We flew down the narrow staircase.
The grotty beige tiles were painted with b****y, scrawled words. You can’t hide.
A man had been dumped in a crumpled heap over a stack of cardboard boxes that were dented from his weight. He’d been torn open from navel to sternum, his entrails splattering over his University of Dubrovnik T-shirt. His head, ripped off his body, lay on its side on the dusty floor like a discarded soccer ball, wide eyes frozen open under blood-matted salt-and-pepper hair.
This hadn’t just been a kill; it had been an enraged s*******r.
Something metal clattered to the floor in the dark recesses of the room behind some shelving racks.
Drio flashed out.
“You found me,” a woman exclaimed, in a lilt
