Nic said, “I don’t care how this guy goes down, as long he goes down hard.” Then, referring to Constable Price, he added, “What do we do with her?”

Carter scratched at his beard and seemed to consider the South African officer. “We clean her up and take her with us.”

Chapter 92

Nic sat behind the wheel of the BearCat as they headed for the Las Vegas strip. He had placed Constable Price in the front passenger seat, her arms still bound, tears still in her eyes.

“Your friend, Kruger, killed a friend of mine today, and a bunch of other people I was responsible for,” Nic said. “We’re going to catch him. He’ll face justice.”

She snorted derisively. “I don’t want him to live out his days in luxury inside one of your American prisons. That’s not justice. I want his head. I want to take a machete and cut off his head.”

Nic cocked an eyebrow at the beautiful South African. “You don’t think that’s a bit harsh for justice? Sounds more like vengeance.”

“Call it whatever you want. As long as he’s still breathing, my heart is on fire.”

“Killing him won’t make that pain stop.”

“You don’t know me. I heard that same crap from your Australian friend, and he ended up sticking a gun in my face.”

“Let’s not forget who saved your life when he did. And no, I don’t know you. But I know vengeance, and I know rage, and I know bloodlust.”

She said nothing.

“How far would you have gone with Verbeek? Would you have started cutting him?” Nic asked. “Tearing off his fingernails? Would you have killed him?”

Her eyes were locked on the floorboard of the BearCat, but he could see them glistening in the neon lights of Vegas.

“I don’t know what I’m doing anymore,” she said. “I don’t care if I live or die. He killed my son. I’d burn down the world to make him pay for that. But … I always thought of myself as one of the good guys. My crusade was righteous. I don’t know what it is anymore. I tortured that man with a hammer, and I probably would have done much worse. I knew it was wrong, but I didn’t care as long as it achieved my goal of finding Kruger.”

They had reached the southern edge of the Las Vegas strip, passed the Harley dealership, and the famed Welcome to Las Vegas sign. The massive themed casinos loomed ahead, shining brightly despite the late hour. Las Vegas never slept.

“I know how you feel. Sort of. I’ve tortured people before,” Nic said. “I wasn’t always a cop. My father was a notorious gangster back in New York. He had a room in the basement of his home, which was my grandfather’s before him, they called it The Slaughter Room. When I was thirteen and my brother was sixteen, he woke us up in the middle of the night and told us that it was time that we learned what it cost for us to live in a beautiful home and have nice things.”