Look, spies are a dime a dozen. I’m a spy. Clyde is a brain. He’s a think tank-type guy. His specialty was low-impact kinetic operations.
We kill people. He figured out how to do it without ever being in the same room. It was his gift, and he was the best. One time, we’re tasking this tricky target. I mean, we’re usin’ cruise missiles and Predators, and we even had a B-2 Bomber flatten this guy’s villa with JDAM. Alright, we’re burnin’ up millions in ordnance and we’re gettin’ nowhere with this guy. So we call Clyde, and we ask him to solve our problem. Clyde develops a Kevlar thread with a high-tech ratchet made of carbon fiber. Put it in a necktie. Two days later, Mrs. Bad Guy comes home, finds Mr. Bad Guy dead on the bathroom tile, choked to death. What I’m sayin’ is, just assume that this guy can hear and see everything that you’re doing.
He’s in jail, it’s because he wants to be in jail. He’s a born tactician. Every move that he makes, it means something. That cellmate that he killed, what, you think that was random? No. That’s a pawn being moved off the board. If I were you, I’d be lookin’ for the next piece. Anybody who had anything to do with that case, he’s gonna be comin’ after you.
Walk into his cell, and put a bullet in his head. Aside from that, no, you can’t stop him. If Clyde wants you dead, you’re dead.
