We stood there in the mud of that empty logging clearing, guns pointed straight at the old man, and the only thing running through my head was how f*****g tired I was of the whole thing.
Up close, Kane looked smaller than he did in the old files. He was leaning heavily against the shoulders of his last two shooters, his boots slipping slightly in the wet gravel while dark blood pooled into the wool of his high-end overcoat. But his eyes hadn't changed. They were still wide, pale, and packed with that flat, dead certainty that always made the skin on my neck tighten up. Echo was flat on her side three feet away from his boots, her ribs hitching in shallow, painful jerks, but she hadn't taken her eyes off us. Not once. She was tracking the muzzle of my pistol like an actuary counting down a
