Vengeance is for love distorted.
How far will a good man go to find the man who murdered his daughter?
How far will he fall?
A MAN WALKED down the concrete corridor, veiled and unveiled by gray shadow and dirty sunlight, his footfalls sounding like sledgehammers cracking pavement. Outside in the Yard, the hoots and howls of condemned men echoed like angry ghosts.
He knew how they felt.
He was big, topping off at six-three; his muscular arms and broad back accustomed to hard work like lungs are accustomed to breathing. His eyes were the color of dark, packed earth. His skin was heavily tanned, and in the crow’s-feet circling his eyes and in the hollow of his thick neck, almost blackened. Calluses covered the long fingers and wide palms of his hands like rough gloves, his left one missing the tip of its middle digit, just below the invisible nail. To this day, he sometimes felt the raw, biting pain in that phantom fingertip. Still, it did not hinder him; for there was almost nothing he couldn’t fix if he used his hands.