CARLOS MISSIRIAN stared at Thomas Hunter.
The man lay on his back, sleeping in a tangle of sheets, naked except for boxer shorts. Sweat soaked the sheets. Sweat and blood. Blood? So much blood, smeared over the sheets, some dried and some still wet.
The man had bled in his sleep? Was bleeding in his sleep. Dead?
Carlos stepped closer. No. Hunter’s chest rose and fell steadily. There were scars on his chest and abdomen that Carlos couldn’t remember, but no evidence of the slugs Carlos was sure he’d put into this same man in the last week.
He brought his gun to Hunter’s temple and tightened his finger on the trigger.