DAMIEN
We came backto New Mexico to grab our shit and for me to do one last thing.
Right now, Mikhail and Nikolay kept Catalina occupied while I made my way down to the basement.
The scent of death permeated the room.
I took in the darkness of it all, held it close to me in comfort.
This was easy.
Taking a life, torturing, extracting answers by any means necessary was easy.
It was everything else that was hard.
I took a deep breath, trying to get myself under control.
Everything seemed to be on the quiet side lately, and it was usually during this period that I felt the most restless.
If we weren’t doing something, then we were waiting around for something to happen, and in my experience, that was never a good thing.
I went down to the last cell.
A man, only a shadow of his former self, looked up at me with dead eyes.
He knew why I was here.
He let out a small prayer. I remained silent as I took him in.
Did he really think his God would save his soul?
I went to the weapon table by the wall, my hand coming in contact with a small blade.
My weapon of choice.
He wept louder.
“Do you really think this will help?” I asked.
He didn’t answer me. I didn’t even think he heard me at this point.
I turned around and watched him.
People who prayed always fascinated me.
I was not a religious man. Never had been, and I doubt I would ever be. The Bratva owned a little church in upper Manhattan, but it uses wasn’t pious in the least.
What was it about turning to an unknown, unseen deity during a time of need that brought people comfort?
Especially for men like him?
If there truly was a God in this world, would he unconditionally love someone like Henry Ramos?
Would he love someone like me?
I didn’t understand it.
So much suffering, so much misery. Would such a merciful God allow people like me to have so much power? Or people like Ramos, who’d sold me when I had been nothing more than a defenseless child?