Page 22 of Irreversible

“You should save that spark for my client,” he continues. “He’ll be tickled pink by the challenge.”

“Sounds like a fun guy. Why don’t you tell me about him?” Once I cut the head off the snake, I’m coming back for hisclientele.

The muscles around his mouth flicker. “As much as I’m enjoying our conversation—and trust me, it’s quite an entertaining departure from the usual begging and screaming—I merely stopped by to say hello. For now.”

“Right, you must be very busy torturing people and whatnot.”

“I suppose you’ll find out soon enough.” Those mismatched eyes scan me from head to toe. “In the meantime, if you need anything, Roger will be more than happy to lend his assistance.” When I raise my one good eyebrow, he looks over his shoulder. “Roger, do come say hello to our guest.”

A mammoth emerges from the shadowed hallway, his feet planted shoulder-width apart, hands clasped behind his back, and his face devoid of expression. He resembles the ogre warrior I used to play in a video game.

He does not say hello.

“He’s shy,” the older man explains.

“Obviously.” I can only assume that Roger is the answer to the mystery of how I got from the floor to the cot last night. I have a vision of the ogre carrying me like a damsel in distress and decide I don’t want to know.

He’s just another obstacle to work around—after dealing with the cuff, the door, and the fact that I appear to be on camera twenty-four-seven. For now, I need to keep theconversation going. I still haven’t learned enough to help me come up with a plan.

“Wait.” I catch the man as he steps into the hallway, making him pause. “This client of yours… Will I be meeting him soon?”

“Not just yet,” says the white-haired man. “But don’t worry, when the time comes, I’ll leave you a souvenir, of sorts. A parting gift. Then you’ll know.”

What the fuck does that mean?

Superiority oozes from his pores like an oil slick. His lip tips up a notch on one side.

I’ve seen too many of his type, thesebusinessmenwho prey on others. Devoid of empathy. They’re fueled by a narcissistic need to reach a goal, no matter who gets used or trampled in the process. They do it for the money, and because they can.

“Do get some rest,” he adds. “My client expects you in tip-top shape. And if there’s anything I’m known for, it’s my knack for acquiring the finest quality merchandise.”

My hands shake. I’m seconds from combusting, from incinerating this prison that’s held countless people like livestock while they wait for someone to offer the right price. I can’t even respond, I’m so?—

Fuck.

Maybe I’ve had this coming, with my suicide missions and poor life choices. But if I’m right, and this is the man who took Sara…

Thinking about her trapped in this nightmare is almost enough to break me, and I can’t afford to let that happen.

If there’s anything the bullshit I’ve been through over the years has made me good for, it’s being the one to stand against these bastards. Someone’s got to, or it will never end. People will keep dying. Justice will never find them.

It has to be me.

“Feel free to wave at that camera up in the corner if you need attending to,” he says, heading for the doorway. “Roger will come right over.” His tone is polite, but I hear the underlying threat.

We’re always watching.

“You’re quite fortunate, you know. Most of us have no idea how we’ll leave this world. Here, you’ll know exactly when you can expect your time to end.” He glances over his shoulder before slipping into the hall. “Not even God does that.”

My career has been made up of many names. On the force, it was Porter. Then there’s my go-to cover, Nick Ford. Marcus Maury convinced a pedophile to drive three states over to a hotel where an underaged birthday present would be waiting.

Spoiler: I took him straight to a prison cell, instead.

Andrew Benson could source any illegal substance known to man, and Lyle, a.k.a. Phantom, was a killer for hire.

He was fun.

There’d been a smattering of other morally dubious characters, all serving to weed out the scum before the innocent fell victim. It’s a niche I fell into, courtesy of a childhood packed with guilt I had no control over—that is, if you listen to the department-appointed counselor I was forced to see—and I’m damn good at it.

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