Armstrong's POV
The ornate paperweight, a heavy crystal thing from some forgotten case, left my hand before I even decided to throw it. It didn't shatter against the wall. It punched clean through the drywall with a sickening thud, leaving a jagged hole that stared back at me like a dead eye.
"Goddamn it! Fuck!"
The curse ripped through the safe house, bouncing off the sparse, dirty furniture. My foot connected with the leg of a metal chair, sending it screeching across the concrete floor to crash into a table. The rage was a living thing in my chest, a red-hot wire tightening around my lungs. Everything was unraveling. Everything.
Marcus flinched by the door, a tall, lean man who was good with a knife but terrible with foresight. He was the reason we were in this mess.
"I thought you said," I snarled, advancing on him, each word a sharp, pointed thing, "that all the men loyal to Cane were taken care of. Every single one. You gave me a list. You showed me pictures."
