He feels the cold black thing in his heart compress further until it becomes a diamond of undiluted hatred.
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It doesn’t matter how clever he is, how adept, how cunning; all it takes is one of Miller’s numbskulls to get lucky—to find a split second to aim and fire—and Thurston will find himself on the wrong end of a bullet.
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Gullfoss Falls lie at one of the widest points of the Hvítá. Above it, the canyons force millions of tons of water faster and faster along the rocks until it is vomited over and down a series of huge stone steps some fifty or sixty meters wide to rejoin the river below.
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In a tourist bar on Tryggvagata he gets a line on somewhere to score dope, which, in turn, takes him to a run-down cafe in the Efra-Breiðholt district to the east, the nearest thing Iceland has to a rough neighborhood.
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Terraverdi looks like someone who’s bitten into an éclair filled with dogshit.

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