Trader of secrets

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Most of the blood left on the concrete floor of the garage in Washington belonged to the big black investigator working for Madriani, the man named Herman Diggs, but not all of it.

Liquida could feel the tight constraint of the large gauze bandage covering the searing wound under his right arm. Every bump in the highway brought pain as the motion tugged on the metal staples holding the wound closed. It made his eyes water. Still, the pain kept him awake and on course.

What kept Liquida going was his hatred for Madriani and an unquenchable thirst for retribution. The firm of Madriani and Hinds had caused him to lose a small fortune, enough money for Liquida to retire. That was before the lawyers’ investigator carved up Liquida’s back with a knife, but not before Liquida had dealt the man a deathblow. As the bastard lay dying on the concrete floor, Liquida twisted the knife by telling him that he knew where the girl was and that she was next. Now he intended to make good on the promise.

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