The door kicked open and the angel of death herself stood before Temmins, head to toe in black, sword in each hand, dripping with the blood of the guilty.

His time had come. His time of reckoning was upon him. His time to pay was here. No more delays. No more avoidance. His debt was due.

The angel of death advanced quickly on Temmins, putting one bloodied sword away, the other at his throat, driving the fat man to the far stone wall, dampness soaking the back of his shirt and pants.

“Ran!” the angel said, glancing at the prisoner.