But he couldn’t. He couldn’t sit still. He was filled with energy—energy to burn—and nothing to burn it on. So he paced and he fumed. He pictured Knife-Edge’s face twisting in agony as he pumped bullet after bullet into the Amerindian runner’s belly. Pictured him engulfed in flame, screaming as he burned like the woman in the torture room. Pictured him moaning in fear as his lifeblood ran into the gutter and he bled himself dry.