I grilled him for a while longer, but his well of information was dry. He sat there, head bowed, sobbing. “Please,” he begged. “Please, that’s all.”

I watched him for a long time. A minute, maybe two.

I lifted my pistol. The Sig Sauer, not the dart gun. I began slowly screwing a sound suppressor onto the threaded muzzle. He looked up sharply.

“Wait … I told you everything I know.”

“Sure,” I said, “and thanks for that.”

“Then what are you doing with that gun?”

I cocked my head and smiled at him. “What did you do before you did this kind of thing? Before Kuga. Before you went to work for Ohan. Tell me what you did.”

He looked startled. “What … The girls? What the fuck’s that to you?”

“Yes,” I said, “the girls. How many of them did you sell?”

“I … I don’t know. What does it matter?”

“It matters,” I said and shot him.

No witty quip. No “see you in hell” bullshit. All I did was point the gun and fire a single shot. The bullet punched through the crown of his head and blew a hole the size of a lemon out of the base of his skull. His body never even twitched. Just fell over.

Ghost gave a single whuff, but otherwise did not move a muscle.

I sat on the edge of the bed for a very long time.

CHAPTER 133

NOWHERE

Mr. Sunday sat cross-legged on the floor. He had tarot cards spread around him. There were bones he’d cast. Some were animal bones; others once belonged to children. He remembered their faces. So sweet and beautiful.

Candles burned in bowls and holders. Six times six candles.

He was naked, because he preferred being naked. It was so pure. In the corners of the room, flies buzzed and reptiles wrestled and spat.

He was about to turn over a card. The Magician. The trickster card. His favorite.

But the card was upside down, and that made him frown.

“Someone is speaking my name,” he said aloud.

Mr. Sunday turned another card. It was the Destroyed Tower. It was another favorite card. It foretold so many delightful things. None of them good. He set it down next to the Magician.

One of the candles guttered and went out.

Mr. Sunday stared at it with eyes whose colors swirled and changed, changed and swirled.

CHAPTER 134

HOTEL TIMIȘOARA

TIMIȘOARA, ROMANIA

I spent a long time in the shower.

Washing off the day. Reliving what I’d just done. It had been a strategic choice. I could not take him into custody or even turn him over. Kuga had too much influence backed by an apparently bottomless bank account. And he had Rafael Santoro, the world’s most effective extortionist. They would do whatever it took to silence Die Katze, and there was zero doubt in my mind that innocent people would be hurt or killed in the process.