Unless whoever had the boy had already corrupted him.
Oh, but surely any goodness could be drummed out. Children were malleable, their minds like super-absorbent sponges. He was the perfect example of that. His own mind had absorbed all the toxins the world had to offer, or so his mother had claimed.
So Rowena had also claimed, in the end.
With his fingers tight on the glass, he finished the bourbon in one fiery swallow. Hatred had burned a hole in his soul long, long ago. Hatred for his mother, for his wife. For McCabe.
He fixed his gaze on the distant lights of Las Vegas, set his mind on the man he’d sworn to kill.
“I’ll get you, Ryan McCabe, no matter what the cost, personally or professionally. I’ll see you sliced into small, bloody pieces by my hand. I swear to you on Rowena’s grave—on her stone-cold, worm-infested grave. I will see you dead.”
…
McCabe understood wrath every bit as well as he understood insanity. James Mockerie possessed an abundance of both. Where the two qualities had come from no one seemed to know. He imagined only a few would care.
One of the people who might have cared was dead. Rowena had done everything in her power to protect her child from his father. So far, McCabe supposed she’d succeeded. But how long would that protection hold if Mockerie decided to go after the child, to retrieve him and drag him into his sick world?
Alone, with no seatmate on his flight from Miami to Las Vegas, McCabe pulled a cell phone from his pocket and studied it. Rowena had sent it to him before her death. Locked and undoubtedly loaded. With what, he had no idea. But he was determined to find out.
It was time for him to take on a madman.
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