The interior of the temple looked like something out of a horror B-trid. A total of twelve bodies lay in a tangled heap where the cultists had dumped them. Each had a gaping hole in the chest where the heart had been removed. The stones underfoot were slippery with blood, and the metallic tang of it assaulted my nostrils. My eyes began to sting as I looked at the corpses. Judging by their cheap, grubby clothing, they were all either street kids or poor campesinos from some tiny country town. One was an elderly man—his gray hair and frail body brought back vivid memories of how helpless Mama G had been. As I stared at the bodies, a tear trickling down my cheek, I felt the last shred of guilt at having gunned down the cultists disappear. Those bloodthirsty fraggers had deserved what they got. Every last bullet.