Page 147 of Irreversible

His voice is like fingernails on a chalkboard. “Kill me.”

“If you insist.”

Pressing down, I put all my weight onto his throat until his face turns purple and he loses consciousness. Then I keep going. When the guy’s heart stops, I get up and walk away.

Mercy is a thing of the past.

I didn’t start this mission with the intent to kill anyone other than my ultimate target, but if you’re going to work for a motherfucking serial murderer, you’re accepting the high risk of becoming a casualty.

As Tanner has warned me repeatedly, it’s a slippery slope. Sliding into the role of executioner is getting easier to embrace each time.

Our little game of cat and mouse began the minute I left the hospital. Using the information gathered on the other facilities in his international ring, I began hitting them, one by one. Releasing victims, burning buildings to the ground, taking away his source of income.

Let’s be honest: what I’m really hitting is his ego.

He first emerged in Brazil, oozing through the underground like the poisonous slime he is. Scouring the continent, I followed rumors of an American on the run that fit his description. That’s where I made the mistake of leaving survivors who work for him. Tracked me across several continents before I had enough and finally killed them.

Lesson fucking learned.

Of course, Vincent ran again—first to Africa, then Indonesia, and now, Europe. That’s okay, I’m still on his trail, taking his businesses out as I go. Including the lab in California, I’ve dismantled four of his black-market sites, and I have no plans to stop until his legacy is a pile of smoldering ash.

Then I’ll watch him burn, too.

With my gun posed to shoot first and ask questions later, I silently move down the hall, one foot in front of the other. All it would take is the tiniest slip-up, and I’d be fucked. The main floor may be deserted, but there’s still a basement and an upper level to check.

A door to my left stands open a crack, leaving a shaft of dim light to streak across the aged hardwood. Staying hyper aware of my surroundings, I glance inside. A rickety-looking staircase drops down, lit only by a single bare bulb.

Basement it is.

I take each step slowly, cringing with every creak until I reach the bottom. Unlike the other places I’ve infiltrated, I don’t find captives—dead or alive—but between the smell and a scatter of discarded belongings, I know they were here.

Judging by the items, there appear to have been children in the group. That’s something I haven’t seen from him before.

It sends my temper through the goddamn roof.

When I leave the basement and search the upper level, I’m less careful about moving silently. I’m way too fucking pissed.

Turns out, it doesn’t matter, because I only find one person left.

“Yes sir, nineteen of them.” At the sound of a voice, I slide along the wall in the upper-level hallway and peek into an open room.

A short, scrawny guy sits in a small office, illuminated only by computer light. At a glance, there’s no obvious sign of a weapon, and he’s too absorbed in a phone conversation to notice when I creep up behind him.

“They’re waiting in a holding area near the docks. The boat will be leaving in two hours.” I look over his shoulder at the computer screen, catching an address followed by a numbered list of genders and ages.

I was right. They’re kids.

“Nope, no sign of your guy. Are you sure he made it out of Jakarta?”

Ah, Jakarta. His guys almost took me out there,but…

“If you’re talking about me,” I say near his ear, “I made it out of Jakarta.”

His last breath is a soft gasp.

With the gun pressed to his head, I remove the phone from his hand and lift it to my lips. “Five down, motherfucker.”

Then I pull the trigger and hang up.

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