The secure phone felt like it carried the weight of twenty-six years of hatred in Marcus Montenegro's trembling hand.
He'd been staring at the device for twenty minutes, finger hovering over the speed-dial button that would connect him to a man he'd sworn to despise until his dying breath. The same man whose claws had torn out his brother's throat. The same man who'd just confessed to collaborating with genocidal maniacs for six months.
The same man whose son carried the other half of his daughter's soul.
"Jesus Christ," Marcus muttered, running his free hand through silver-streaked hair that had gained more gray in the past week than the previous year. Through his study window, the first hints of dawn painted Silver Creek territory in deceptive shades of rose and gold, but the pastoral beauty felt like mockery. How could the world look so peacefully normal when everything was crumbling into nightmare?
