But did Terry have a choice?
He dealt drugs and knew how to read people. Geralt's gun hand was steady, his gaze calm.
Experienced. Dangerous. That was Terry's assessment.
Terry didn't consider himself a hero. Given the choice between spilling everything now and doing it after a brutal interrogation, he sensibly chose the former.
Small-time crooks had their own ways of surviving. While Terry fled, Geralt headed to the Maya Gang.
The Maya Gang weren't locals. They had rented a large warehouse as their base.
Out front was a parking shelter lined with all kinds of flashy motorcycles.
Discarded parts lay scattered outside.
It certainly looked like a motorcycle club.
To Geralt, sneaking into the warehouse was no harder than slipping into Terry's shabby trailer.
Before long, Geralt found Felipe's room. He shared it with his wife.
Geralt pressed a spot on her neck. Her head lolled to one side, and she slept like the dead.
He switched on the bedside lamp.
Geralt sat in a chair and quietly waited for Felipe to wake.
Many people had experienced it: someone entered your room while you slept and stood beside your bed, and somehow you sensed them.
Felipe was an alert, cautious criminal. Deep down, he felt profoundly unsafe and slept more lightly than most.
Felipe opened his eyes.
Did I forget to turn off the light? His gaze shifted to someone sitting in a chair.
The bedside lamp was dim, and his eyesight had worsened with age. Felipe couldn't make out the person's face.
He made no sudden moves.
Slowly, he propped himself up and sat against the headboard.
"Hello, Mr. Reyes," the person said.
A young voice... Felipe paused, then said, "Young man, breaking into someone's bedroom in the middle of the night isn't polite."
"Oh, sorry about that,"