The Inquisitor

Truth, meanwhile, was a weapon that even a damaged fist could still grasp and wield. It was a remarkably versatile commodity; it could be traded, or help serve an end, or produce a profit.

Early retirement, Dalton. Teach yourself to type with your toes and you can start writing your memoirs.

The world knows nothing of you. That is my gift to you. You are no one.

PROLOGUE The client sat in an eight-foot-square room staring at a large one-way mirror that offered a view into flat, smooth darkness. An audio

dusty light invaded the pitch-black core of him. He felt a dull ache in his ankles. Rising up like a ballet dancer on the balls of his feet, he stretched his Achilles tendons and calf muscles. The pain and the music stopped, and then the sliver of light disappeared. The elevator gate rattled. “Geiger?” Harry said. The word came to Geiger as if called to him across a canyon. He turned to find Harry standing in the doorway, bafflement breaking across his face. “Jesus Christ. What the hell happened?” Geiger glanced back at Hall. “We’re leaving,” he said, as if he were informing the body instead of Harry. Harry put the attaché case down at his feet. “Oh fuck. What’d you do to him? Is—is he dead?” “No. We have to go now.” Geiger moved for the door, and Harry put his hands up like a traffic cop. Geiger stopped, staring at Harry’s raised palms. “Wait a second,” Harry said. “Just wait, okay? Jesus Christ.” He put his palms to his cheeks. “What the hell is going on with you?” “We have to go.” “Can we talk about this for a minute?” “Right now, Harry, it’s more important that we leave.” “I disagree, man. This is crazy. This is truly nuts,

And he had a theory about fear. It was all about regret. If you make what you want out of life and don't bullshit yourself about your choices, then there are no regrets, and a man without regret isn't afraid of anything.