The cellar was cold and smelled of stone and patience. I stood in the corner with my arms crossed, watching Marcus Webb sit handcuffed to the same chair Rourke had occupied days earlier. He looked smaller than I remembered. The confident handler who'd sent me on this mission, the calm assassin who'd pointed a gun at my head in Geneva, the master strategist who'd eluded justice for two decades—all of it had drained away, leaving behind a tired man with graying hair and a swollen ankle.
He hadn't asked for water. He hadn't asked for a lawyer. He'd just sat in the dark, waiting, like he'd known this moment would come eventually.
Dante stood beside me, his shoulder nearly brushing mine. He'd changed clothes since the warehouse, trading the smoke-stained shirt for a black sweater that made hi
