I had already cut off one of his ears, along with ripping off ten of his fingernails, severed both Achilles heels, a couple of stab wounds in specific locations that won’t allow the fucker to bleed out too quickly, and too many broken bones to count.
Dickhead won’t be getting up and walking out of here, that’s for damn sure.
“Less crying, more talking,” I bark, scraping the tip of the knife against his still-closed eyelid.
He cringes away from the knife, tears bubbling out from beneath his lashes.
“H-his name is Fernando. He’s one of the operation leaders in charge of sending out mules to help capture the girls. He-he’s a big deal in the warehouse, b-basically runs the whole thing there.”
“Fernando what?” I snap.
He sobs. “I don’t know, man,” he wails. “He just introduced himself as Fernando.”
“Then what does he look like?” I grind out impatiently through gritted teeth.
He sniffles, snot leaking down his chapped lips.
“Mexican, bald, has a scar cutting across his hairline, and a beard. You can’t miss the scar, it’s pretty fucked looking.”
I roll my neck, groaning as the muscles pop. It’s been a long fucking day.
“Cool, thanks man,” I say casually, as if I haven’t been torturing him slowly for the past three hours.
His breathing calms, and he looks up at me through ugly brown eyes, hope radiating from them in spades.
I almost laugh.
“Y-you’re letting me go?” he asks, staring up at me like a goddamn stray puppy dog.
“Sure,” I chirp. “If you can get up and walk.”
He looks down at his severed heels, knowing just as well as I do if he stands, his body will go pitching forward.
“Please, man,” he blubbers. “Can you help me out here?”
I nod slowly. “Yeah. I think I can do that,” I say, right before I swing my arm back and plunge the entirety of my knife through his pupil.
He dies instantly. Not even all the hope has vanished from his eyes yet. Or rather, his one eye.
“You’re a child rapist,” I say aloud, though he’s no longer capable of hearing me. “Like I’d let you live,” I finish on a laugh.
I slide my knife from the socket, the suction noise threatening to ruin any dinner plans I had in the next several hours. Which is annoying cause I’m hungry. While I do enjoy myself a good torture session, I’m definitely not a dickhead that gets off on the sounds that accompany it.
The gurgling, slurping, and other weird noises bodies make when enduring extreme pain and foreign objects being plunged into them is not a soundtrack I’d ever fall asleep to.
And now for the worst part—dismembering it into bits and pieces and disposing of them properly. I don’t trust other people to do it for me, so I’m stuck with the tedious, messy job.
I sigh. What is that saying? If you want it done right, do it yourself?
Well, in this case—if you don’t want to get caught and charged for murder, dispose of the body yourself.
It feels like ten o’clock at night, but it’s only five P.M. As fucked as it is after dealing with human body parts, I’m in the mood for a mean ass burger.
My favorite burger joint is right off of 3rd Avenue, and not too far of a drive from my house. Parking is a bitch in Seattle, so I’m forced to park a few blocks away and walk there.
A storm is rolling in, and soon sheets of rain will be descending on our heads and shoulders like icepicks—typical Seattle weather.
I whistle an unnamed tune as I walk down the street, passing shops and an array of stores with people bustling in and out like a bunch of worker ants.
Ahead of me, there’s a bookstore lit up, the warm glow shining onto the cold, wet pavement and inviting passersby into its warmth. As I near, I notice it’s packed full of people.
I spare it a single glance before moving on. I don’t care about fiction books—I only read the ones that are going to teach me something. Particularly about computer science and hacking.
By now, there’s nothing those books can teach me anymore. I’ve mastered and then surpassed it.
As I’m turning my head to look at some other shit, my eyes get caught up on a board right outside the bookstore, a smiling face beaming back at me.
Without permission, my feet slow until they’re glued to the cement sidewalk. Someone bumps into me from behind, their smaller stature barely knocking me forward, but it does manage to jolt me out of the weird trance I fell into anyway.
I turn to glare at the enraged guy behind me, their mouth opening and gearing up to cuss me out, yet the second he gets one look at my scarred face—he takes off into a half-walk, half-run. I’d laugh if I weren’t so distracted.
Before me is a picture of an author that’s hosting a book signing.
She’s fucking incredible.
Long, wavy cinnamon hair brushed over dainty shoulders. Creamy, ivory skin with freckles dotting her nose and cheeks. Light and sporadic without overwhelming her innocent face.
Her eyes are what draw me in. Sultry, slanted eyes—the type that always look seductive without trying. They’re nearly the same color as her hair. A brown so light, it’s unusual. One look from this girl and any man would be on their knees.
Her lips are pouty and pink, stretched into a radiant smile with straight, white teeth.
I note the name below the picture.
Adeline Reilly.
A beautiful name fit for a goddess.
She doesn’t have that plastic beauty you see lining the magazine rack. Though she could easily make it on one of those covers without photoshop and surgery, her features are natural.
I’ve seen a lot of beautiful women in my life. Fucked a lot, too.
But something about her captivates me. It feels like a hurricane is at my back, pushing me towards her and leaving no room for resistance. My feet are carrying me into the bookstore, my black boots soaking the welcome mat at the entrance.
The only lingering scent filling the air is one you attain from used books—though convoluted from the large group of people congesting the area. This small structure wasn’t built to house more than the ten large bookshelves lining the left side of the room, the small checkout desk on the right side, and maybe thirty people. Now, there’s a large table in the middle of the room where the author sits, and at least double the occupancy limit packed in the stuffy store.
It’s too hot in here. Too crowded.
And one asshole beside me keeps picking his nose, his dirty hand touching all over the book he’s holding. I glimpse Reilly on the cover.
Poor girl. Forced to sign a book that probably has boogers all over it.
I open my mouth, ready to tell the fucker to stop looking for treasure in his nostrils when it feels like heaven’s gates open up.
In that second, the people in front of us seem to part at the perfect angle, providing me with a clear view. I only see her from the corner of my eye at first, but the small glimpse is enough to send my heart into a tailspin.
My head turns like one of those creepy bitches in an exorcist movie—slow, but instead of an evil smile, I’m sure I look like I just found out that there’s evidence the earth is actually flat or some shit.