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Even if there was, I just didn’t give a damn.

As I sprayed the room with bullets, my men rushed to other rooms, ensuring no one survived.

A lunge from the shadows and I was forced to jam the butt of my assault rifle into the man’s face. Blood sprayed from his mouth as he was pitched backward, still scrambling to try to recoup from the blow.

I pumped four bullets into his face, spinning sideways in time to catch two more headed toward me.

They didn’t survive.

Another dared attack me and this time, I eviscerated him with my knife. Even with his cries of agony, I felt no sense of satisfaction. Nothing could ease the pain.

I moved to the next. Then the next.

Less than three minutes later, the only sounds were those of a woman crying, huddled in the corner.

I’d allow her to live.

After taking a deep breath, I turned in a full circle, slowly lowering my weapon. I was surprisingly calm. While Roman had been right after all in that I craved burning down the city, I was being careful in how I handled things. Enough so that I could provide the maximum level of pain and destruction.

This was just the first of several locations, ending the lives of anyone I believed involved in the murder of my fiancée and daughter.

I wasn’t interested in lamenting over the task, heading to the far frequented by members of the Dixie mafia.

While I rolled up on my Harley, my men arrived in several vehicles. The location outside of town was private, the house discovered only hours before and less than four days after the bomb had taken over a dozen lives.

There were no conversations as my men knew exactly what to do.

In moments of revenge, there should be some sense of satisfaction.

This time, there wasn’t.

I had no such feelings, no moment of completion because the actions meant nothing to me and would never bring back the woman I loved or the child who’d endured more pain than anyone should have to.

For me, a life spent in hell was everything I deserved. But that didn’t mean I wouldn’t dole out punishment as necessary for all those who dared defy, betray, or believe they could destroy what little I had left.

More blood.

More bodies.

More rage that never settled, was never appeased.

And I knew it would never be enough.

* * *

Death held a defining grace, a harsh grasp that never released its hold no matter the joys or triumphs experienced. Death was relentless and unforgiving, never caring about a person’s hold on reality or his or her ability to cope. Death was a monster only the devil himself could enjoy. Some would say in death there was also a rebirth, an awakening of a tired soul eager to breathe once again.

But I knew only the opposite.

There was no life left inside of me that mattered. There would be no future joys or aspects of love capable of balancing the utter silence of my soul.

As if I had one left.

If there was, it was pitch black, cold, and unforgiving. There would be no mercy, no room for doubt. I was judge, jury, and executioner and anyone who dared get in my way would learn how damning Russian punishment could be.

Less than a week had passed since my world had collapsed. Six days of anger turning inward. Six days of fighting the kind of darkness that could consume me to the point of rendering me ineffective.

Six days of being in a haze.