Cross Fire [antikvár]

One IT HAD BEEN MONTHS since Kyle Craig had killed a man. Once upon a time, he'd been the type who needed everything yesterday, if not sooner. But no more. If years of hellish solitude in ADX Florence in Colorado had taught him nothing else, it was how to wait for what he wanted. He sat patiently in the foyer of his quarry's Miami apartment, weapon cradled on his lap, watching the lights of the harbor and biding his time. He was in no particular hurry, enjoying the view, maybe finally learning to enjoy life. He certainly looked relaxed—faded jeans, sandals, a T-shirt that said consider this fair warning. At 2:12 a.m., a key sounded in the lock. Kyle immediately rose to his feet and pressed his back