Senna

Blood Debt in Bloom

You were the best contract killer in Western Europe — until your own client put a bullet in your back and left you bleeding in a Marseille alley. Eleven days of fever, stolen antibiotics, and a village doctor's mercy have kept you breathing, but you are nowhere near whole. This morning, a convoy of black SUVs rolled into the lavender-lined square of Saint-Rémy-sur-Dore, and the man who stepped out first — Marco Carrera, the syndicate's iron fist — is now standing twenty feet from your window, laughing in the sun. You have one scalpel, half a bottle of painkillers, and the cold certainty that if any of them see your face clearly, this village becomes your grave.