⊰ Marcel ⊱
The sound of the gunshot echoes through the empty warehouse, reverberating off the metal walls. The man before me slumps to the ground, a neat hole in the center of his forehead, eyes wide and unseeing. The acrid smell of gunpowder fills my nostrils as I lower my weapon, a sense of grim satisfaction settling in my chest.
It’s done.
I turn to Rick and Frank, both standing a few feet away, their own guns still trained on the other two men kneeling on the cold concrete floor. They’re beaten and bloody, faces swollen from the hours of interrogation carried out at the hands of my men.
“Take care of them,” I command, my voice flat and emotionless. Rick nods, his expression hard as he steps forward, pressing the barrel of his gun against the back of one of the men’s heads.
I don’t
