5 dead. 14 injured. 20 jobs. $13,000.
The week echoed in my mind like something that happened in the last week. They don't let me name names on this blog, but the person behind the hit I was investigating is probably being picked up by the East Point police about now.
Killing him wasn't worth the stain on my relatively new coat.
The trigger man's dead. I thought that would feel good, but there's no escaping what it cost.
I don't know.
I guess I picked the least shitty of two incredibly shitty sides. Maybe that doesn't matter.
Maybe all that matters is that I now have the ability to kick down doors.
Either way, I need a drink.
Me as Richard Conway
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