As though reading my mind, Peter steps next to me. “Do you want to do the honors, or should I?” His tone is casual, like he’s offering me a cup of coffee.

“I’ll do it,” I reply in the same manner. There is no room for softness in my business, no place for sentimentality. Abdul’s guilt or innocence doesn’t matter; he allied himself with my enemies and, by doing so, signed his own death warrant. The only mercy I will grant him is that of a swift end to the misery of his existence.

Ignoring the man’s terrified pleas, I slice my blade across Abdul’s throat, then step back, watching as he bleeds out. When it’s over, I wipe the knife on the dead man’s shirt and turn to the two remaining prisoners.

“All right,” I say, giving them a placid smile. “Who’s next?”

To my annoyance, it takes most of the morning to break Ahmed. For a new recruit, he’s surprisingly resilient. He ultimately gives in, of course—they all do—and I learn the name of the man who acts as an intermediary between their cell and another one that’s run by a more senior leader. I also learn of a plan to blow up a tour bus in Tel-Aviv—information that my contacts in the Israeli government will find quite useful.

I let John watch the whole process, up until the moment Ahmed takes his last breath. Even though John may be trained to withstand torture, I doubt he’s psychologically prepared to see his colleague taken apart piece by piece, all the while knowing that he, John, will be next. Few people are capable of maintaining their cool in a situation like that—and I know that John is not one of them when I catch his gaze dropping to the floor during a particularly gruesome moment. Still, I know it will take us at least a few hours to extract anything from him, and I can’t neglect my business for the rest of the day. John will have to wait until this afternoon, after I’ve had lunch and caught up on some work.

“I can start if you’d like,” Peter says when I tell him this. “You know I can do this on my own.”

I do know that. In the year that he’s worked for me, Peter has proven himself more than capable in this area. However, I prefer to be hands-on whenever possible; in my line of work, micromanaging often pays off.

“No, that’s okay,” I say. “Why don’t you take a lunch break as well? We’ll resume this at three.”

Peter nods, then slips out of the shed, not even bothering to wash the blood off his hands. I’m more fastidious about these matters, so I walk over to a bucket of water sitting by the wall and rinse the worst of the gory residue off my hands and face. At least I don’t need to worry about my clothes; I deliberately wore a black T-shirt and shorts today, so the stains wouldn’t be visible. This way, if I run into Nora before I have a chance to change, I won’t give her nightmares. She knows what I’m capable of, but knowing and seeing are two very different things. My little wife is still innocent in some ways, and I want her to keep as much of that innocence as possible.