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She looked at the smoldering bullet holes around two feet to the right of Logan’s torso. This morning, Logan’s family – whoever they were, wherever they were – had said goodbye to their husband, father, grandfather. It was bad enough they’d have to learn he was a mercenary with a staggering victim count, and learning he was dead could put any young children on the same path Ella went down.
And she’d be damned if she was going to let history repeat itself.
“You’re lucky I’m out of bullets,” Ella said. She reached into her jacket, got her handcuffs, and did her duty. Everything Logan had said, from his acting effort in the foyer to his confession of killing three-hundred people, had all been caught on Ella’s phone. She pulled it out, closed down her voice recorder, and dialed nine-one-one.
Twenty-six years.
One bloody end.
And perhaps for Ella Dark there would now be a beam of light somewhere in the darkness.
EPILOGUE
“You’re absolutely sure?” Karl said on the phone.
He was in the back of the bar, leaning against one of the barrels of imported beer. The person on the other end of the line had given him news he hadn’t expected to hear in his lifetime.
“Positive. They’ve taken his two workers down with him too.”
“But he’s alive?” Karl asked.
“Barely.”
Karl shoved the phone away from his ear and massaged his temples. He didn’t like the sound of this, because if the cops broke down the foundations of the Diamonds, the whole operation would be in jeopardy. All it took was one person to tip the cops off, and once they scooped up a significant member of the group, surely one or more of them would crack under pressure.
“Alright.”
The man asked, “Are you going to tell the boss?”
Karl hung up, stared out at the patrons in the bar. He was now burdened with a grave responsibility. Best to get it over with.
“Back in a minute,” he called to the bartender. Karl went up the spiraling staircase, along the corridor, knocked on the big man’s door. Karl prayed he was in a forgiving mood because it wouldn’t be the first time Owen Angels killed someone for giving him bad news.
“What?” a voice asked.
Karl let himself through. Owen had his feet rested up on the window ledge, a cigarette burning in one hand. A copy of the bookThe Art of Warwas sitting on his desk.
“Sir, I’ve got bad news.”
“Don’t tell me the shipment’s canceled. If so, someone’s getting hurt.”
“No. It’s the Cleaner.”
“Nash? What about him?”
“They got him. He’s been arrested.”
Owen gave no indication that he’d heard Karl’s comment, but Karl knew he had. Owen stared out of the window for a moment, took a deep inhale of his cigarette, and flicked it to the wind. “You’re going to have to repeat that,” he said.
“The Cleaner’s gone. Two of his guys too.”
Owen spun around toward his desk, clasped his hands in prayer, and covered his mouth. Karl didn’t like it when Owen went quiet, because when the big man started reflecting, people usually ended up dead shortly after. Karl understood anger, frustration, and violent outbursts, but contemplation was Owen at his most intimidating.
“The FBI girl? The one Nathan was supposed to take out?”
“Yes.”
“How’d she find him?”
