In the warehouse, the high-pitched scream of the chainsaw had finally died out, replaced by a silence so heavy it felt physical. Miller stood over the body of Tito, his chest heaving, his knuckles split and bleeding. He looked like a man who had crawled back from the edge of his own grave.
He reached down and turned Tito's body over. The man's eyes were glassy, fixed on a ceiling he would never reach. Miller reached into Tito's tactical vest, his fingers slick with blood, until he felt the cold, hard edges of a car keyset.
A few feet away, Amos lay slumped against a stack of rusted shipping crates. His breathing was shallow, a groan escaping his lips every few seconds. Miller stared at him for a long heartbeat, the adrenaline screaming at him to finish what the Torredos had started. But he wasn't a cold-blooded murderer and wasn't ready to be one. He believed Amos was a dead man walking anyway.
