Текст книги "The Darkest Place"

Автор книги: James N. Cook

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“I believe that would be prudent,” Tyrel said. “Rojas, you have a visual on any of these assholes?”

“Negative,” Rojas replied. He sounded winded. “Hang tight brother, I’m on my way.”

“Be careful. They probably have a sniper somewhere.”

“I served three tours in Iraq, homes. I know how to watch out for snipers.”

“Great. Then hustle your ass up,” Tyrel replied. “I think this is about to get ugly.”

The voice from the stairwell spoke again. “I’m going to give you to the count of five to come out, then we’re coming up after you.”

Neither of us spoke. My heart began to beat faster as I adjusted my shooting position and focused on the doorway, finger over the trigger, muscles tightening to take in the slack.

“One.”

A cold feeling started in my stomach and spread to my face and hands, a rhythmic thud-thud-thud hammering in my ears.

“Two.”

I took a deep breath, held it, and let it out.

“Three.”

A hand appeared in the doorway, tossed something through, then disappeared. I heard running steps pounding down the stairs. The thrown object was small, green, and oblong, its exterior comprised of a honeycomb of tiny interconnected squares.

“Grenade!”

The voice sounded like mine, but I did not remember telling my lungs, mouth, and vocal cords to form the words.

The world slowed down, the edges of my vision going gray and narrowing down to a small, pulsating point. The grenade rolled into that point, rotating lengthwise and skittering across the slick tile floor. I had a vague sensation of movement as I darted out the doorway, took two huge running steps, and kicked the grenade toward the door of the stairwell. I had just enough time to hit the floor and curl up in the fetal position before there was a tremendous BANG.

The force was incredible. I felt my body come off the ground and slide backward. A shockwave poured over me like the hand of an invisible giant, knocking the breath from my lungs. My ears rang from the impact, and I dimly wondered how much permanent hearing damage I had just endured. I put my hands over my ears hoping it would help, but it did not, at least not until another slightly less powerful blast hit me from behind.

Something flew over me at tremendous velocity, tearing a hole in my sleeve and carving a shallow furrow in my upper arm. The pain was immediate and intense, and I hissed in agony. My vision dimmed, went almost completely dark, then opened up like the beginning of an old black and white movie. I saw my rifle, and beyond, the shapes of people moving in the stairwell. I thought I heard screaming, but I couldn’t be sure. The ringing in my ears was too loud. I reached for my gun, grabbed it, and pushed off the ground until I was sitting upright.

Behind me, I heard gunfire.

“Shit!”

The last place I wanted to be was alone and exposed in the hallway with no cover. I scrambled backward like a crab, fired a few blind shots through the stairwell opening, and pushed my way back through the door of the classroom.

Remember your training, my father’s voice told me. Stay in the fight.

I got up to one knee, leaned a little way around the wall, and trained my weapon toward the stairs. The gunfire behind me continued unabated, but I ignored it. I would have to trust that Tyrel had survived the grenade thrown at him and was holding his own. If not, I was as good as dead, and the only thing left for me to do was to take as many of these sons of bitches with me as I could.

The hallway was filled with smoke, the air sharp with an acrid scent I could not identify. As I watched, a man-shaped gray thing stepped into the swirling dust, weapon blazing. His shots cut the air in front of me, making little thwap-thwap sounds as they passed. I adjusted my aim slightly upward and fired three times. The man jerked, screamed wetly, and fell. It was in my head to make a follow up shot, but then I saw two more men emerge behind him.

I focused on the closest one and fired, finger working the trigger as fast as I could. I don’t know how many times I shot him, but it was enough that he dropped to the ground. The man behind him saw my muzzle flash and aimed in my direction.

We fired at the same time.

I knew my shots would hit; the reticle of my VCOG was centered squarely on the upper portion of his chest. His weapon flashed twice, and I had a brief moment of panic as I expected to feel impact, and heat, and pain. Instead, I felt a scalding sting on the right side of my face, screamed, and fell over backward.

I put my hand to my face, blinking furiously. The eye still worked, which was a good sign. My cheek was wet with blood, but not much of it, just a trickle. I sat up and moved my head, my arm, felt around on my torso. Everything seemed to be in good working order. I had a fevered remembrance of a quote from Winston Chuchhill, one I had always found amusing: Nothing in life is so exhilarating as to be shot at without result.

It did not seem very funny anymore. Whatever I was feeling, it was pretty damned far from exhilaration. As I sat there, it occurred to me the hallway had gone silent. I keyed my radio and whispered, “Tyrel, you still alive over there?”

“Pretty sure I am.”

A wave of relief poured over me strong enough to make my eyes sting. “Glad to hear it.”

“How’d you make out on your end?”

“Shot three of them.”

“Dead?”

“They look pretty dead. Can’t say for sure if there are any more. You?”

“Four down, and at least one more wounded. I think I heard the rest making a run for it.”

“Rojas, you got anything?”

No reply. I waited a few seconds, then keyed the mike again. “Rojas, do you-”

Gunfire interrupted me, sounding like it was coming from outside the building. I belly crawled into the hallway and peered through one of the shattered windows overlooking the courtyard out front. Two men lay face down in the snow, firing toward the southwest side of town. I followed their trajectory and saw muzzle flashes at the treeline. Rojas.

I leaned out the window and sighted in on the men below. I knew I was taking a huge risk, but I could not just sit there and do nothing while Rojas fought for his life. The reticle settled where I wanted it to go, half a breath fogged the air in front of my face, and I squeezed the trigger. The man lying closest to me jerked and cried out in agony. The man beside him looked startled for a second, then stood up and began running away in a serpentine pattern. I moved to adjust my aim, but something whizzed past my ear close enough to feel a tug of wind on my skin, and a thudding whack hit the wall behind me.

“Fuck!”

I spun away from the window, went flat on my back, and kicked my feet until I slid back into the classroom. From outside, there was a burst of fire, a scream, and then silence.

Static. “Rojas?” It was Tyrel.

Nothing.

More static. “Rojas, you still there?”

“Yeah, man. I’m here.”

I let out a breath. Ty said, “What’s the situation?”

“Both bad guys are down. Caleb got one, I got the other while he was running for cover. You two all right up there?”

“More or less.”

“All right. I’m on my way.”

“Copy.”

“Stick to the treeline,” I said. “That sniper is still out there somewhere. He just took a shot at me.”

“Acknowledged. Out.”

“Hey Caleb,” Tyrel said over the radio.

“Yeah.”

“Unless my math is wrong, that’s nine accounted for. Right?”

Tyrel got four, I got four, Rojas got one. “Yep. Four plus four plus one equals nine.”

“Good. That grenade blast knocked the shit out of me. My head’s all loopy.”

“What do you want to do?”

A moment of silence, then, “I’m thinking they split their forces evenly, six on each side. We know three on your side are dead, which leaves three more.”

“I’ll wait until you get here.”

A minute later, Tyrel crawled to the doorway, his rifle held in front of him. “Let’s go.”

We stayed low until we cleared the last window on the way to the stairwell, then stood and edged our way toward the door. Tyrel went first, using a technique called ‘cutting the pie’, which basically meant aiming your weapon around a corner in such a way as to present a small target profile. I waited behind him, holding my breath, until he relaxed and lowered his weapon.

“Jesus,” he said.

“What?”

“I found our other three hostiles.”

“And?”

“I think the dumb sons of bitches missed the door with that grenade they threw. Looks like it blew up on the landing. Ripped ‘em to pieces.”

“They didn’t miss.”

“What?”

“They didn’t miss. It came through the door just fine. I kicked it back at them.”

Tyrel turned to look at me, eyes white around the edges. “Are you serious?”

“Yes.”

He stared a moment longer, then tossed his head back and laughed. “You crazy-ass motherfucker.” His hand bounced off my shoulder.

I said, “What happened with the one they threw at you?”

“Didn’t toss it far enough, blew up a few feet shy of the doorway. Saw it coming and jumped back. Still hit me like a fucking hammer, though.”

I peered down the stairway, caught sight of a ragged, bloody stump of leg, white bone protruding through flesh, and stepped back quickly. “Shit.”

“You all right?”

“Man, I’ve seen some things, but that …”

“Don’t feel bad about it. They tried to do the same thing to you.”

I was about to say something else, but Tyrel stiffened and turned his ear toward the window. “You hear that?” he asked.

“I can’t hear shit right now.”

Tyrel fished a telescoping mirror from his vest, edged over to the window, and held it out. I noticed it was pointed down, as though he were trying to look at the ground. I watched his eyebrows come together and his mouth tighten into a hard, flat line.

“We got trouble.”

“What trouble?”

He looked disappointed. “What just happened here, Caleb?”

“A firefight.”

“And firefights are …” He held an open hand in my direction. I blanked for a few seconds, then had a flash of insight and slapped myself in the forehead.

“Loud,” I said. “Firefights are loud.”

“And who likes loud noises?”

I dropped my magazine, stowed it, and popped in a full one. “Infected.”

“Here’s what we’ll-”

A crash and a scream echoed from downstairs, making us both jump. Tyrel keyed his radio. “Rojas, you all right?”

No response.

“Rojas, can you hear me?”

Silence.

“Rojas?”

FIFTY-SIX

“We have to go down there,” I said.

Tyrel pointed his rifle down the stairwell. “On me.”

As I followed him down, I did my best not to look at the shredded limbs and gutted torsos littering the stairs, or slip in the disturbing amount of blood. The air in the narrow passage smelled of copper, raw meat, and shit. I had to bite down hard to keep from gagging. Finally, we emerged at the second floor exit.

In the hallway ahead of us, Rojas sat with his back to the wall holding his mid-section. He turned his head when we opened the door.

“Stay there!” he shouted.

“What happened?” Tyrel replied, although I am certain he already knew the answer as well as I did.

“Goddamn sniper.”

“Can you crawl over to us?”

“Probably.” He sighed and winced. “But I don’t see much use in it.”

Tyrel blinked. “Are you insane? The infected are coming!”

Rojas, his face twisted in pain, moved his hands. A torrent of blood spilled from his midsection. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I won’t let them get me.” He patted his pistol.

“Oh no …” I muttered, staring at the gunshot wound. My stomach felt like it weighed a hundred pounds. If my recall of Gray’s Anatomy was correct, the bullet had hit one of the large arteries running near the centerline of Rojas’ body.

“Rojas, I want you to listen to me,” Tyrel said. “I can treat that wound. There’s still a chance you can survive. But that’s not going to happen if you stay there.”

The man I had come to know and respect over the last seven months turned his head and smiled. “You a doctor now, Jennings?”

“No, I’m a SEAL. I have medical training, you ass. Now get the fuck over here.”

Rojas chuckled. “SEAL, schmeal. Y’all ain’t shit. Buncha spoiled, overrated glamour boys. You wanna be a real man, be a Ranger.”

“We can argue about it upstairs. Come on, man, you can’t stay here. If you don’t start moving, I’m going to crawl over there and drag your sorry ass.”

“Nah, man. Don’t bother. It’s over.”

“Don’t talk like that. Nothing’s over.”

Rojas leaned his head against the wall and closed his eyes. “You wanna know something? I’m not scared. I always thought I would be, but here at the end of it, I think I’m just relieved.”

Tyrel’s fists balled up. “Rojas, stop it. I don’t want to hear any of this all-hope-is-lost bullshit. I’m coming over there to get you.”

“I was married. I ever tell you that?” He rolled his head to look at us, eyes glassy, tears running down dark cheeks. “Had me a pretty wife and two little girls. Still got a picture of us all together.” He patted his chest pocket. “Take it with me everywhere.”

The tension went out of Tyrel. He sat down and leaned against the doorsill. “I didn’t know that, Miguel,” he said, using Rojas’ first name. “You never told me.”

“Yep. Met her not long after I graduated AIT. Got married down in Rosarito, near where I grew up. You ever been down there, by any chance?”

“Lots of times.” Tyrel said.

“Oh yeah, that’s right. You were in Coronado. That’s where they send all you SEAL pussies.”

Tyrel smiled with red-rimmed eyes. “Fuck you.”

“Best thing ever happened to me, homes. I loved that woman, those girls. I was in Afghanistan when the Outbreak hit. Took three weeks to get us home. Shit was crazy, man. You think things were bad here in the States, you should have seen what it was like over there. Fucking pandemonium.”

Tyrel nodded. “I’ve been there. I can imagine.”

“When I got back, I deserted. Ain’t ashamed of it either. Soon as my feet hit American dirt, I stole a car and hauled ass to Baja. I knew that was where they would go, to my family’s place. Somebody got there first, though.”

At this admission, the trickle of tears became a flood. Miguel Rojas sobbed, one bloody hand covering his face. “The house was burned down. They took everything. My wife, my girls, my parents, they were all just these black burned things.”

I could not see any more at that point. I sat down beside Tyrel and leaned my forehead on his shoulder.

“I buried them there on the beach, slept the night next to their graves. Left Baja the next morning and didn’t look back. Wound up in Colorado Springs. Hid in plain sight, didn’t tell anybody I was in the Army. Fell in with the militia. Been living day to day ever since, trying not to think too much about the past.” He looked around and let out a bitter snarl. “And here it ends. Fuck it. I guess this place is as good as anywhere. I’m ready to be done, amigos. I’m ready to see Veronica and the girls again. Been too long. Way too long.”

He reached a hand down at his side and began fumbling at his pistol holster. “It’s strange, losing everything. You think your life is over, but it’s not. You just have to find something else to hold onto. Something else to live for. Me, I’ve been living for the militia. For money, for booze, for women, for whatever distracts me. But now I know I wasn’t really living. I was just waiting. Passing the time the best way I knew how. My wife would be ashamed of me.”

Seeing he didn’t have much left in the tank, I moved past Tyrel and crawled to Rojas’ side.

“Caleb!” Tyrel hissed.

I ignored him and put my back against the wall next to Rojas. “Shit, man,” he said. “Help me out here?”

The moans of the infected became loud enough I could hear them past the ringing in my ears. I could even hear the crunch of their footsteps in the snow outside. I reached down and drew Rojas’ pistol. He looked at me and said, “You mind?”

“No. I’ll do it.”

He nodded and patted me weakly on the knee. “Thanks, man. I’m glad it’s you. We had some good times these last few months, huh? We made a good team.”

“Miguel, it’s been an honor,” I said. Then I raised the gun, closed my eyes, and pulled the trigger.

FIFTY-SEVEN

I did not leave him for the infected.

The manufacturer of his MOLLE vest had installed a handle on the back so a soldier’s comrades could pull him to safety if he was too wounded to walk. I gripped it and began tugging him across the floor, head bowed, teeth clamped shut. When I had to cross a window, I dropped to my side and pulled with one elbow on the ground. Outside, the infected drew closer, their moans pouring into the hallway like a flood.

“Come on,” Tyrel hissed. “Move your ass.”

I redoubled my efforts, drawing deep breaths and surging forward. Rojas was not very tall, but he was solidly built and heavy with muscle. My breathing soon became labored from the strain. Finally, I crossed under the last window and stood.

I said, “Help me pick him up.”

Tyrel gripped Rojas under the arms and laid him over my shoulder. I bounced a few times to balance the weight while Ty hastily locked the stairwell door.

“Go on ahead,” I told him. “I”ll carry Rojas upstairs, you go lock the other stairwell.”

Tyrel nodded once and pounded up the stairs. A few seconds later, I heard his footsteps over my head as he sprinted across the third floor hallway.

The climb was not an easy one. The stairs were slick with blood and gore, the stench making breathing difficult. I focused on taking one step at a time, not thinking about the end goal, just the task immediately in front of me. Like that old joke:

How do you eat an elephant?

One bite at a time.

I made each surge of thigh muscle and stiffening of back a mission unto itself. Plant the boot, lean forward, flex the core, push. Now repeat. Again. Again. Again. Finally, I reached the third floor landing and emerged into the hallway. The bodies of the men who attacked us were still there, still dead. I had not noticed it before, but a thin film of blood covered the floor from wall to wall. The cold had coagulated it, turning the pool into a thick, gooey mess. There was no way I was going to cross that while carrying Rojas without slipping, so I set him down gently.

The door opened at the other end of the hall and Tyrel emerged. “All secure?” I asked.

He nodded and came over to stare at Rojas. His face was blank, the piercing black eyes steady and intense. “We need to strip his gear.”

Before the Outbreak, I would have been horrified at the suggestion. I would have stared angrily at Tyrel and asked him what the hell was wrong with him. But you do not survive the end of civilization by being sentimental. You do not survive by ignoring the reality of your situation. You survive by being able to turn off your emotions and do what is necessary, no matter how unpleasant. I may not have liked it, but Rojas’ gear was valuable. We could not afford to leave it.

As I thought this, Tyrel said, “You know we have to leave him here, right?”

I nodded slowly. “I know. We’ll never make the rendezvous in time if we take him with us. He’s too heavy.”

I felt a hand on my shoulder. “You did the right thing.”

“I know.”

The hand left. “No man should have to kill himself when he has friends around.”

I nodded, wondering what the future held for a world that viewed such grim sentiments as kindness.

“That sniper is still out there.” I said. “He has to know by now his friends are all dead.”

Tyrel looked toward the window. “Maybe he has more friends.”

*****

Night fell.

The moans of the infected grew steadily louder as they converged on the schoolhouse. Hundreds of them packed the second floor until no more could fit. The late arrivals began squeezing together in the courtyard and other areas outside, and in less than an hour, they had packed themselves tight as sardines, standing room only, an undulating sea of grasping hands and twisted faces. There was no way we were getting out of the building until the cold immobilized them. In the meantime, we had to hope the heavy steel doors barring entry to the stairwells held up under the pressure.

Making things worse, we had no way of knowing how long the sniper was going to wait for us. A military-trained sniper can remain in one spot for days without moving. But I doubted that would be the case this time. If the cold did not force him to move, the infected eventually would.

When the sun was well behind the horizon, we put on our NVGs and moved into the hallway. The moon was still behind the mountains, making it pitch dark in the building. We laid out the empty duffel bags and filled them with the gunmen’s weapons, ammo, and equipment. Then, staying low, we dumped the bodies out the shattered windows. Even with my ears still ringing somewhat, I could hear the infected in the courtyard tearing into them.

Rojas, we dragged into a classroom. After stripping him of his gear, I unrolled his sword, laid it on his chest with the blade pointed at his feet, and positioned his hands around the hilt. We said a few words over him, then covered him up with his jacket. I hated the thought of leaving him there, but he knew the risks when he agreed to come with us. In my place, he would have done the same thing.

Our loot was seven serviceable rifles, three damaged ones we could strip for parts, nearly a thousand rounds of ammunition, five pistols of varying calibers, and the gunmen’s tactical vests and their contents. We even took their boots. A decent haul, but hardly worth a good man’s life.

Staring at the black bags bulging with salvage, I was once again struck by the nature of the world I now lived in. Before the Outbreak, if we were caught with any of this stuff, we would have gone to prison. But now, no one would question where it came from. Abandoned military equipment could be found anywhere, making it impossible for anyone to say for certain where a particular item in a market stall came from. Bloody boots were barely worth batting an eye at. Bullet riddled tactical vests were sold at a discount, an additional ten percent off if you couldn’t wash out the stains. Throw in a box of 5.56 ammo, and it was worth a gallon of purified water and half a pound of venison jerky. Squeamishness has no place in the scarcity of the new barter economy.

Later, we searched the rooms on our floor looking for something to use for bedding. We had cached our sleeping bags, along with the rest of our gear, on a hillside where they weren’t doing us a damn bit of good. If we wanted a decent night’s sleep, we would have to improvise.

One of the doors we opened revealed a teacher’s break room, complete with two vinyl sofa’s, a blank television, and a vending machine. Neither of the sofas were big enough to sleep on, so we drew knives, cut out the padding, and laid it on the floor. My legs dangled over the edge from the knee down, but it was better than nothing.

Most of the food in the vending machine was inedible, but at the bottom were two rows of little cans of Vienna wieners. We busted the glass and devoured them greedily, undeterred by the coagulated fatty goop they were immersed in. My father once told me you would be amazed what you will eat if you are hungry enough. As usual, he was right.

Afterward, Tyrel said he would take the first watch. Too tired to argue, I gratefully lay down on my makeshift mattress, covered myself with my ghillie suit and a long wool jacket taken from one of the dead gunmen, and focused on clearing my head. Too much had happened that day. I needed time to process it, put it into perspective. But that would have to wait. Exhaustion had come calling, and it was not going to leave until I paid the rent.

I watched Tyrel pull a chair up in front of the door, sit down, and lay his rifle across his lap. Looking over his shoulder, he said, “I’ll wake you up in four hours. Get some rest.”

I closed my eyes and slept.

*****

In the halfway space between awake and asleep, I felt warmth on my face and heard the sound of boots with dirt in the treads grating over tile.

Startled, I reached for Rojas’ pistol. I had placed it next to me before lying down, arranged so I would not fumble for it in the dark, the grip turned toward me, the top of the barrel pointing at my feet. All I had to do was lay a hand over it, and muscle memory would do the rest. But muscle memory is useless when a size twelve boot comes down and arrests your efforts.

“Easy, Caleb. It’s me.”

Tyrel’s voice. I blinked at the brilliant sunlight pouring in between the blinds. The boot took its weight off my hand.

“What the hell?”

“Sorry,” Tyrel said. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

His silhouette sat down in front of the window. I blinked rapidly, trying to force my eyes to adjust to the light. “What time is it?”

He held up his wrist. “Just after eight.”

“What!”

“Relax. I’ve been up all night.”

I looked around, eyes toning down the glare to something manageable. The room was the same as I had seen it last night, stripped sofas pushed into the corner, shattered glass from the vending machine kicked against the wall. I sat up and looked at what Tyrel held in his lap.

“Where did you get that?”

He leaned forward, holding the object out so I could see it. It was a rifle, but not an ordinary one. There was no wood in the stock or foregrip, only composite plastic with shock absorbing springs in the butt plate. A Leupold scope sat atop a rail mounted over the barrel. It was bolt action, and, judging by the barrel, large caliber. A bloodstain covered the chamber, stock, and a section of Tyrel’s right sleeve. I knew immediately what I was looking at.

Sniper rifle.

“This is the weapon that killed Rojas,” Tyrel said.

I went still. A quick examination of my old friend revealed ice on his Army surplus fatigues, dirt and pine needles stuck to the fabric, and dark face paint with unwashed brownish-red spatter staining his cheeks.

“Ty, where have you been?”

He laid the rifle across his legs and patted it as if I had not spoken. “Took me a while to find the piece of shit. Had to wait until you were asleep and the infected were frozen.”

I stared, eyes finally adjusting to the light. There was some kind of sticky, rusty brown matter encrusted in Tyrel’s knuckles and matted in the hair on his fingers. My eyes moved to the Ka-Bar dagger on his vest, the stains on the sheath, the smudges on the handle. I said, “Ty, where did you go last night?”

“Hunting. I went hunting.”

The next question was obvious, so I didn’t bother asking it. We sat in the cold silence of the room, Tyrel’s fingers drumming on the rifle’s foregrip, until finally he said, “The Rot finally stopped crooning about 0100. Gave ‘em another hour just to be sure, then went down to check out the hallway where Rojas got shot. Found the slug in the wall; a .308, or maybe a .300 Win mag. By the size of the hole in the wall, it had to have come from less than 300 meters.” He shook his head. “Went straight through him, the poor bastard. Never had a chance. Round like that, at that range, doesn’t much matter where it hits you. Anyway, it gave me a good idea where the shot came from. Weren’t too many angles a sniper could have used, not with all the other buildings in the way. So I worked my way to the north side of town, used the buildings for cover. Took a while. Finally got to where I was pretty sure the shot came from and started searching with the night eye.”

He patted the night vision scope on his carbine. “Spotted him on the third floor of an office building. Had a nice setup, rifle rest on top of a desk, nice comfortable chair to sit in.”

His hand strayed to his Ka-Bar and touched the blood smudges. “Took me about half an hour to sneak up on him. Grabbed him from behind before he could do anything about it. Told him, ‘You killed my friend, you son of a bitch. Now you’re gonna die.’ Then slit his throat.”

Tyrel made a cutting motion across the front of his neck. “You wanna hear some shit, though?”

I did not like the look on Tyrel’s face. “What?”

“It wasn’t a him. It was a her. The sniper was a woman.” He laid the rifle on the ground with shaking hands and stared at it. “Wouldn’t have changed anything, though. Even if I had known, I still would have done it.”

The room was silent for a time. Birds welcomed the dawn outside, chirping and whistling back and forth, oblivious to the doings of man, alive or dead. The sun coming in through the window grew brighter until I felt warmth through the leg of my pants. I picked up the sniper rifle and said, “Tyrel, it’s warming up. We have to go.”

He nodded and stood, hands balled into fists at his sides. “I still would have done it.”

“Tyrel, we need to move.”

He looked up, eyes bloodshot, marked underneath in shades of black, “But if I had known, I don’t think I would have cut her throat.”

I studied the flint-sharp lines his face, half illuminated in gold, the other half in shadow, and wondered which one of us he was talking to.