Brent waited in an eerie silence for someone to respond to his request. After what seemed ages, Wilkes came on the line and told him that a team was on its way. “Copy.”
Brent walked ten paces into a bright patch of halogen light from a lamppost. The blood on his hands shimmered and smelled metallic. There was nothing he had wanted more than to see the men who took Laura bleed. He looked into the wet sticky mess, coelomic cavity fluids sticking to tissues floating in the rapidly oxidizing puddle. A fresh drop slid down his forefinger and entered the pool; he could have sworn that he saw a brief image of Laura’s body glistening in the reflective surface. Somehow the air changed the color before his eyes and it became fresh crimson lifeblood as his hands rose, creating long night shadows. He was no prophet, but he knew that he had Laura’s blood on his hands.