“You can photoshop him into a picture, right?” Wicker asks, slamming the door. He’s twisted around, looking at Pace in the backseat. “Like some fucked up image of Father surrounded by underaged Thai girls?” “I can,” Pace says, inspecting his gun before tucking it behind his back, “but we can do better than that.” “Better how?” Wick’s forehead creases, and then he cackles. “Oh, Thai boys. Yes, that is so much better.”
