Damien
The photograph reached my phone at 11:42 p.m.
By 11:43, I wanted to kill someone.
I sat in the back of a black SUV speeding through Kingsford while rain hammered against the windows.
Victor was gone.
Another lead had vanished.
Another opportunity had slipped through our fingers.
And now someone had taken a photograph of Lena.
Again.
Closer this time.
Much closer.
I stared at the image on my screen.
Lena leaving the tower.
Coffee in one hand.
Phone in the other.
Completely unaware she was being watched.
The picture couldn’t have been taken from a rooftop.
Or a distant building.
It had been taken from street level.
Close enough to see the freckles across her nose.
Close enough to see the expression on her face.
Close enough to hurt her.
My jaw tightened.
Beside
