KEENAN

“Pass me a cigarette,” Keenan muttered, peeling off the blood-slick latex gloves with a wet snap. One of his men was already there, lighter ready. Flame kissed the tip; Keenan inhaled deep, eyes closing as the first drag burned down his throat. Tension bled out of him in a slow, gray plume.

He turned, gaze locking on her.

Amelia lay sprawled across the concrete, two neat holes in her chest, one clean through the forehead. Blood pooled beneath her like spilled wine, dark and glossy under the harsh fluorescents.

“Bishop, what about the bodies?” one of the men asked.

Keenan’s lips curved not quite a smile, more a predator’s...