Brimstone

D’Agosta sipped the bitter drink. He wondered if it was possible to get a cup of decent American coffee somewhere in Italy instead of this poisonous black stuff that stripped the inside of your throat and boiled in your stomach for hours afterward

blindfolded, a gun to his head, standing at the edge of a precipice

“I never cared for fishing,” Pendergast said. “I preferred blood sport.”
“What’s wrong with fishing?”
“I find it quotidian in the extreme.”