He opened his eyes to see Xander standing above him. His split tomato of a face appeared overly large, ripe with villainy. He raised his boot and brought it down on Luke’s chest. The pain was immense. It felt broad and gray, like the wing of some huge bird, encompassing him and exerting pressure on every bone.

“Pick him up,” Johan said.

Xander did, jerking Luke to his feet with a succession of forceful moves. Luke’s hands were still tied behind his back and he leaned off balance—would have dropped again if Xander hadn’t grabbed his hair to keep him upright.

“What a waste,” Johan said, stepping so close to Luke that their chests bumped. They were the same height, yet Johan towered. His arrogance set a cushion of air beneath his heels. “Defamed. Hated. Broken. And you started out so hopefully.”

“Let him go,” Kitty said. She stood several feet to Luke’s right, pale and shocked but still on her feet. “He’s got . . . nothing to do with this. This is on . . . it’s all on me.”

This was the first time Kitty had spoken since they’d broken into the hotel. She had groaned and dribbled, and had managed a reedy, desperate scream, but mostly she stared silently at the ground. Now her back was pulled straight and her jaw raised. She looked at Johan imploringly, her eyes shining in the cracked mask of her face.

“On me,” she said again.

“Oh, Kitty,” Johan said, sparing her the briefest glance. “I’d like to believe you, but you have a history of lies and disloyalty.”

“Please, Johan—”

“How should we begin?” Johan lifted his ax, pushing the eye up under Luke’s chin and forcing his head backward. “Should we cut off his hands or his feet? What do you think, Kitty?”

She was bound at the wrists with Johan’s belt, but she exploded forward nonetheless, lowering one shoulder, intent on driving Johan to the ground. Ruben grabbed her before she managed more than a couple of steps. He wrapped one meaty forearm around her chest and pressed the barrel of his semiautomatic pistol—a Walther PPQ—to her throat. Kitty thrashed, kicking her legs, her lips drawn back over her teeth.

Xander subdued her—a stinging backhand slap that whipped her head sideways. Her right eye darkened and swelled as Luke watched.

“You sons of bitches,” he said. His voice was low with emotion, almost unrecognizable. “You’re all going straight to hell.”

“Not true,” Johan said. “I’m going to kill you, then I’ll go home, take a long, rejuvenating shower, and grab a few hours’ sleep. And later, I’ll upload a video to YouTube—me playing Fortnite or something—and the kids will laugh and love me, and you’ll still be dead, Luke, buried in a dry hole, turning to dust.”