Back when I was cop, I interrogated hundreds of suspects. In all kinds of places, using all kinds of techniques. But never, ever anything like this.

“Make all the noise you want,” I say. “Nobody around for miles. It’s just you and me out here, Angus. And the crickets. And … the gators.”

CHAPTER 63

I place the cold steel barrel of my pistol against the back of his head.

His muffled cries of terror turn frantic.

“What happens next is up to you,” I say. “Who hired you to go after Vanessa? What’s happening on Mardi Gras? How’s it all connected? Tell me!”

To my surprise, Angus vigorously shakes his head. He seems to grunt “no,” followed by what sounds like a string of profanities. Unbelievable!

“If you’re willing to die to protect some terrorist scum, your life is even more worthless than I thought,” I say. “But okay. If that’s the way you want it … ”

I press my gun harder into his skull. I cock the hammer, stand to one side so I can see his miserable face.

He scrunches his beady eyes shut. My index finger is twitching like a live wire. A few pounds of trigger pressure are all it would take to wipe this asshole from the face of the earth. It would be so easy. So satisfying. I could probably get away with it, too.

But no. I’m better than that. And no one deserves to die in cold blood. Especially not someone who might still turn out to be helpful.

I pull the pistol away, carefully lower the hammer back down, and then jam my gun back into the waist of my jeans. I yank him off the ledge, lower him into a seated position on the ground, and untie the bandana around his mouth. He looks up at me, stunned and speechless. Relieved to still be alive. But even more afraid of what I might do next … I hope.

I pull something from my pocket. It makes him flinch—but it’s just the cigarette I took from Vanessa earlier, and the Bic lighter I used at the gas station.

“Smoke?”

Nervously, he accepts. I light it for him and he takes a few anxious drags, like he’s expecting the thing to explode in his face.

But gradually, he starts to relax. And it looks like he’s lowering his guard.

“Look, Angus—if that’s even your real name—you seem like a smart enough fellow,” I start. “Who just got caught up with some bad dudes. Tell me what happened. The more you share, the more I can help you.”

He holds his cigarette awkwardly in his bound hands. He stares at it, sullen. The glow casts an eerie shadow over his ropey, tattooed arms.