If he gave his blackmailer half a million dollars in Bitcoin, there was no guarantee—and in fact, it was more than likely—that his personal life or the classified files that never should have been on his laptop would end up on the Internet, the final act of vengeance from a troll who seemed bent on destroying him. And Harry would have bankrupted himself to pay the man who had destroyed Harry’s family, his career, his heart, and his soul all in one fell swoop.

Paying the money was not the solution.

Nor was allowing the blackmailer to make good on his threat. Why should Harry and everyone he loved be victimized yet again by this man? He’d destroyed enough already.

Harry’s fingers gripped the scotch glass so hard that they turned white.

That’s what he wanted to do to his blackmailer. Wrap his fingers around the man’s throat until he no longer could threaten Harry, his lover, or Harry’s family.

He stared at his hand. His hands had the strength to do what he yearned to do.

But did he have the courage to do it? Could he actually take a man’s life?

Just a few months ago, he had objected to assisted suicide when Kate Lange had approached him because he didn’t believe in someone having the power to end another’s life.

And yet, if he killed his blackmailer…

It would end the torment that had been unceasing and merciless since he arrived in Halifax on Thursday night.

It would give his father a measure of closure for being victimized and robbed of a peaceful death of his beloved wife.

It would prevent his lover’s domestic life from being destroyed.

It would save Harry’s career.

It would mean that Harry would have the funds to pay for his father’s legal defense.

It would prevent national security files from being sold to unscrupulous agents.

Killing his blackmailer would solve almost every problem that had manifested itself in the past twenty-four hours. Every problem that had appeared insoluble, insurmountable, and that had left him alone in his hotel room, a wrecked man, draining a bottle of scotch.

He sprang to his feet—and staggered forward, catching his balance just before he fell into the coffee table.

Where was his phone?

It vibrated on the rug, half-obscured by the sofa.

That phone. That gateway to hell.

He snatched it from the floor.

Before he could think, he sent a message to his blackmailer.