Novelas y relatos de Cormac Mccarthy

I was in their territory, and I had no idea how deep. Once my hands were free, I rolled my wrists and leaned back. "Okay, now what's your name?" "...Cormac." I nodded. "I'm Jack Spencer." Silence. Cormac and his men flinched. I smirked. Ah, there it is. "No relation to the one that died," I clarified. "Just happens to be the same name. Is that why you came to get me?" "Not at all," Cormac said, regaining his composure. "My son recently—"

17 The doors groaned open. The inside smelled of wet wood, smoke, and stale whiskey. A dozen men in green-and-black jackets lined the rafters. Irish eyes, cold and calculating, tracked Gregory like rifles. At the center of the warehouse floor stood Ford McCarthy, head of the Irish mafia, the man with a reputation for cutting throats and sealing peace with the same hand. Ford wore no jacket, just a white shirt rolled at the elbows, sleeves wet from the rain. His voice was sharp as he greeted:

I froze. A man stood by the edge of the trees, lighting a cigarette with steady hands. Smoke curled around him like a crown of shadows. He looked like sin in a suit, dark, dangerous, and maddeningly composed. His eyes didn’t flinch, didn’t waver. He didn’t even seem to care that I was on the verge of collapsing, yelling, or trying to escape. He was watching me like I was a mildly interesting movie he didn’t pay to see. He was watching like he was actually enjoying it!

“Yes, you did.” His eyes narrow, his jaw clenching tight. “You want to pretend that we both don’t know what you saw the other night in that alley?” I can feel the color draining from my face as the shiver teases up my spine. Cormac just shakes his head though. “I already told you, I’m not here for that. I’m here to make sure those pieces of shit don’t hurt you.” “Who are you?” “Someone with a job to do.” “And your job involves throwing girls half your age over your shoulder and hauling them away like some sort of caveman?”

“Victoria, I know you’re ambitious, but to kill our own children just to make a comeback? You’re a cold-blooded monster. I’m so disappointed in you.” Hearing his well-practiced, hypocritical lines, I finally laughed out loud. Even now, he was still trying to play the part of the devoted, heartbroken man. “Fine. If you want to play dumb, let’s let everyone hear the truth.” I took out my phone, turned the volume to max, and played the recording of him and his underling. His cold, cruel voice filled the hall for everyone to hear. The reporters swarmed, their cameras aimed at Cormac’s ashen face, the sound of shutters like a hailstorm. The crowd gasped and booed.