No Mercy
“Drop the iron, Miss Voss.” The syllables didn't just slice through the damp night air; they fell with a heavy, rhythmic cadence that suggested the speaker had rehearsed this particular configuration of threats a hundred times before. It was a cultured, mid-Atlantic accent, entirely devoid of the local regional drawl—smooth, polished, and soaked in the terrifying certainty of a man who had already reviewed the logistics and known the outcome. I kept the black grip of the semi-automatic leveled at the space between his lapels, but the muscles in my forearms were twitching so violently the front sight was tracing erratic, white circles against the glare of the halogen high beams. Beside me in the gravel, Kai was down on his right side, his chest hitching in short, wet, whistling gasps that
- Writer
