I cut through the bushes toward Blake.
The cunt doesn’t see me coming. He’s too busy stooping at the passenger side window, his hands cupping his eyes against the glass.
Rage. Resolve. A swish of my coat and my fingertips are brushing over the grip of my gun, but they don’t find purchase. Instead, they curl into my palm and form a fist that draws back and severs the last thread of my composure.
Pain. Satisfaction.