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“We all have a role in this world’s play, Richter. Some of us are main characters, like Leah Nachtnebel. Others are merely extras. Most don’t even get to be part of the play at all. They watch from their seats and clap along like idiots. Their existence is unnoticed. Their sparks too weak to ever start a fire.”
“What is your role in this world, Richter? Main character, extra, or not even worth giving a fuck about?”
“My God. The cloud!”
“It means ‘mirror’ in Slovenian,” I said. “Or, metaphorically, ‘ankh,’ in this context.”
After all, we kill killers.
Jan Novak leaned forward in his chair, examining his reflection in the mirrored walls of his office, every move captured like a window to his soul. Like a modern form of the ankh.
He watched as a gunman shot Assistant FBI Director McCourt and then himself on stage during a concert by Leah Nachtnebel.
The fact that she had actually uncovered his identity was nothing short of marvelous. Especially considering the extreme measures he had taken to erase the scar on his shoulder.
“Let the games begin.”
