No," I say.
Torture would be a waste of time anyway. His mind is already doing it for us. Let him sit in it. Let him replay every chance he had to take the deal.
Every time he laughed at me. Everytime he bragged. Let him count every peso burning in front of him. That's worse than anything we could do with a knife.
"How long till the flight?"
Ronnie checks the dashboard clock. "Just after nine. Flight's at four. Less than seven hours."
"Give him that long." I don't look away from Santos, still on his knees in the ash, now covered in it. "Let him have that time to understand what he lost. Then kill him before we leave. Or don't. I'll do it myself."
I take it back as soon as I say it.
I want to do it myself. I want my hands to be the last thing he sees. I want that sick, quiet thrill of it. The one I hate and crave at the same time.
I know it's sick.
