Alexander Kane

Twenty-five days.

I haven’t rested in seventy-two hours. Everything around me is beginning to resemble a rifle scope, with red crosshairs.

I’m down in the basement armory ( the walk-in freezer) encircled by enough weaponry to ignite a minor conflict and sufficient gold-infused bullets to ensure the city wishes it had never glanced at my daughter. The hanging bulb above sways on its wire casting shadows that stretch along the walls as if attempting to write her name. Each ...