Divine Justice

Tazburg, Mise, Divine, South Ridge.” He read the names off the

Important man, they say. Lot of important men in this world. But they die just like the rest of us. God’s way of making life fair.

Why was it he was more comfortable with the dead than the living? The answer was relatively simple. The dead conveniently never asked questions.

As had been the case with Gray, most snipers aimed for the brain as the gold standard of all possible killing shots. Sure, you pack the right ordnance and a torso hit would also likely be fatal, but the head shot was like a faithful dog in a professional killer’s world because it just never let you down.

Was revenge always wrong? Was righting an injustice outside the law never condonable?

Experience without cynicism was a sure sign your brain had dry-rotted and you hadn’t bothered to notice.

Tyree explained, “This man attacked a guard barely

his former boss at CIA, Simpson had still been sitting in death, only with him instead of a car seat it was a ladder-back chair in the kitchen that was now all mottled with the dead man’s blood. The shot had come from the unfinished chunk of construction across the street. The hour of execution—for

Sheep follow blindly. We’re not supposed to be sheep.

Some things never change,” said Abby wearily. “Boys never grow up, they just get bigger with more hair and people start calling them men.