Riordan’s Revenge (Body Count #3)

R iordan

With a savage-edged zombie blade held high, Struan slashed another of the mayor’s suits with a satisfying rip. “So tomorrow begins his big election campaign presentation. Wonder what he’ll be wearing. Not the Armani. Nor the Zegna. Wait, there’s a Ralph Lauren left. Ah, shame. That one cut like butter. Nice material. Makes me almost want to own a suit.”

On the opposite side of the mayor’s dark bedroom, I prised open a heavy watch case and took out the first of two rows, some gaps in the lineup. A Rolex. Shiny, with a little crown symbol and a broad metal strap. I set it down on the bedside table, raised my hammer, then smashed the glass. Next, I dug into the guts with the claw end, enjoying the destruction. Small pieces of the expensive watch’s mechanism went tinkling.

Throughout the course of the evening, I’d laid waste to the mayor’s life. First, Struan and I trashed his Town Hall office, including stealing his laptop and throwing it in the river. Confidential files from his cabinet had been left around town, on benches and in bar bathrooms, secret budget meetings and character assassinations contained within. We’d poured cement powder into the fuel tanks of the two cars he used—those engines would never run again—and had now moved on to his home.