Raising his hands as if he was an innocent bystander and not the man I’d come to slaughter, he smiled to pacify me. “Is she dead yet?” I asked, the uncaring tone of my voice sounding inhuman even to my own ears. Part of me wished I cared for Isa’s sake—the same part of me that wished my wife didn’t have a terrible sister who made it impossible to tolerate her existence.
“I can tell you where she is,” he said instead of answering. I resisted the urge to hang him from the ceiling upside down and carve into his stomach. Only the desire to get home to Isa kept me from ripping out his entrails and watching him bleed out. I pulled my bowie knife from the sheath attached to my pants, shoving his gun into the back of my waistband.
Tilting my head to the side as I stared at him, I didn’t stop the cruel smile from claiming my face. “For that information to be valuable, I would have to care,” I said, grabbing a fistful of his hair and wrenching his head back to reveal his vulnerable throat. He raised his hands to scrabble at my arm, raking his nails down the fabric of my shirt in a desperate bid to free himself as his horror mounted and he started to realize that he had nothing of value to offer me. “I don’t.”
“She’s in Colombia!” he yelled, clinging to the last possibility that he could sway my decision.
He didn’t.
I slashed my blade across his throat, cutting through sinew and flesh deeper than necessary in a sudden bid of inspiration from his reveal of Odina’s location.
Even though I didn’t care to save her and had absolutely no intention of wasting my men’s lives on the pathetic waste of space that she’d become, nothing sent a message better than the head of my enemy.
Especially when that head wore a Colombian necktie.
His eyes went glazed as I finished the cut, and he was sadly already gone by the time I plunged my hand into the wound and gripped his tongue harshly. Pulling it back through the hole, I released it to lay against the bottom of his throat and drape there perfectly.
One of Mariano’s men chuckled, confirming that I’d chosen a team who was just as fucked up as I was. Wiping the blood on his shirt and sheathing my blade, I turned for the door.
My wife was waiting.