GARRISON

The bathroom mirror reflected a man I barely recognized.

My jaw was dark with a blossoming bruise from the assassin's gun butt, and a jagged, raw tear stretched across my left shoulder, sluggishly weeping blood into the porcelain sink. I tore the remaining strips of my ruined black dress shirt down my arms, tossing the expensive fabric into the trash like trash.

I leaned heavily against the marble basin, closing my eyes as the adrenaline finally leaked out of my veins, leaving a cold, unyielding fury in its place.

Arthur.

The name tasted like venom. Thirty years of loyalty, erased by a single night of orchestrated slaughter. I had...