Uno. Dos. Tres. He caressed each bullet in the palm of his hand before slipping it into its chamber. He had done this a dozen times before but somehow tonight he hoped he could get something out of her. Cuatro. Cinco. Seis. When the last chamber was loaded, he looked across the room to the strong, stubborn, young girl with a hood over her head that he had tied to a chair.
He walked over to her, took off the hood, and looked her in the eye. “I will ask you again, Mya, where is he?”
Her grin sent chills down...