He wanted a personal reckoning with Alisha. He’d teach her what it meant to betray him, but first he wanted to show her the true value of her ex-lover. He wanted to kill him personally too, although not at the expense of walking into a trap. He shoved his gun into his waistband and transferred the Scorpion to his right hand. He braced his wrist against his hip, then let loose the full fury of the gun, firing through walls and door alike. The bullets cut through the flimsy barricade and into the room beyond. Then he dropped the gun and burst open the door and followed inside. As he did he pulled out his ceramic blade and thumbed it open.

He was surprised by what he found: a lone man sitting with his back to a wall. No sign of Alisha. The man was dressed a little snappier than the guards he’d already killed, and he was young and handsome with a full head of wavy hair. He was the tall man who had met Alisha at the door. He was lightly tanned, but some of the color had drained out of his features, making him look slick and pasty. Rickard glanced at the bullet wound in the man’s gut. The man had one hand clamped over it to staunch the flow of blood, while his other hand still gripped the stock of a Glock 18. The man rolled his head up to stare at Rickard and though he was in agony he still mustered enough hatred to make his eyes flash.

Rickard lunged in quickly and jammed a heel down on the man’s gun hand.

“Where is my wife?”

The young man twisted, trying to free his gun, but Rickard only pushed down harder with his heel.

“I asked you a question!”

“Fuck you!”

“Once more: where is my wife?”

“Gone, asshole. You’re too late.”

Rickard heard movement behind him and recognized it as someone removing the beam from the brackets on the side door. Alisha making a break for it. He scolded himself for not checking behind the damn mattress in the bedroom he’d passed, but it was too late for recriminations now. Alisha wouldn’t get far before he could catch her again. He had time to make this man sorry for sticking his nose in his business.

“Then that means you’re no use to me anymore,” he said. He slashed with the knife and opened up the man’s throat. It was a calculated cut that sliced his trachea wide but missed the major blood vessels. The man would die, but it would take minutes and he had no hope of screaming for help.

Rickard leaned down and took the Glock from the man’s fingers. He stepped slowly off the pinioned hand and watched as the man grasped at his throat. The gut shot was forgotten as he tried to stem his life from ebbing away.