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Kendra took shaky breaths as she came down from the adrenaline high. The smell of gunsmoke filled her nostrils, and she felt sick to her stomach.
Goddamn it. I wanted him alive.
She stared at Delta’s body. Blood was pooling around his shattered skull, looking almost black against the concrete floor.
I had to do it. I had to. It was either him or me.
Grimacing, Kendra removed the suppressor from her pistol and holstered it, then she stowed away her ballistic vest.
She started patting Delta down, and she found his wallet. The driver’s licence said his name was Peter Wong, and just like Thomas Cronin, he worked in an investment firm on the North Shore.
She checked his phone, and as expected, it was blank. Set to self-erase.
She collected his gun, his knife, his ammo. Then, stepping back, she brought her own phone out and took pictures of Wong.
It was gruesome but necessary.
Already, the alarms from the cars had gone silent, cutting off automatically. The garage was quiet as a tomb.
Kendra was tempted to clean up after herself. Remove all the spent shell casings. Mop up the blood. Hide the body. Eliminate as much forensic evidence as possible.
But she didn’t have the time, not the inclination.
Fuck it.
Shaking her head, she made for the stairs.