"How many addresses have been executed?" Fabio asked.
His voice was low, but his eyes burned with a sharp, searing intensity, harboring a coal-like rage ready to consume anyone in its path. Inside the black car gliding silently through the night streets, the aura of death felt suffocatingly thick.
"Three," Martin said.
The answer was clipped. The dark window glass reflected the passing streetlights, which flashed by as quick and cold as the glint of a knife. Four men sat in the cabin. Their faces were flat and expressionless, with automatic weapons resting neatly on their laps, waiting for their turn to bark.
The driver did not speak. His fingers gripped the steering wheel with steady resolve while his gaze remained fixed on the darkness ahead. A small radio on the dashboard emitted a soft static, an irritating electrical hiss, before a voice broke through the silence.
"Next target in ten minutes."
"Understood," Martin replied shortly.
