Captive (Killer Souls #1)

Chapter One – Abby

It’s crazy to me how assholes can sleep so soundly at night. You’d think they’re at complete peace with everything they’ve ever done, but I guess that’s the point: assholes don’t really give a shit either way. They do what they want, when they want, and screw everybody else.

The guy I currently stare at is one of them. Brock Hard.

Yeah, seriously, the dude’s name is Brock Hard. His parents must’ve had a field day when they decided on his name, like they knew he’d grow up to be a gym bro who wouldn’t care about anyone but himself.

That, ultimately, will be his downfall, too. I’ve watched him a few times at the bar before I decided he’d become my next victim. I’m still learning, so I’m taking things slow. Slow and steady wins the race and all that.

My name is Abigail LaRoe, and by the end of this thing, I’m going to be a serial killer.

But all serial killers start somewhere, don’t they? They all have to have those few beginning victims that don’t quite match the rest. I don’t want to kill willy-nilly. No, I have a specific type of person in mind, and Brock Hard fits the mold.

Women are always shown to have righteous vengeance when they kill.

Very rarely do they ever show a woman killing in any sort of media and enjoying it.

I enjoy it, but at the same time, I’d be lying if I say I don’t have vengeance in mind.

I wouldn’t be here without it. Vengeance is what fuels me, and the fact that I can get my jollies out of it at the same time is just a bonus.

This world has too many men who think they’re the shit. It’s time some of us women knock them down a peg or two, show them that we’re not the only ones who should fear for our lives and our safety while walking down the street at night alone, not the only ones who should watch our drinks in bars.

Rape. Torture. Murder. It’s been going on since the beginning of time.

Humanity likes to fight each other, and those in power don’t feel right unless there’s infighting and hatred.

Rich versus poor? Nah, the rich own everything so they can spin things however they want.

It’s poor versus poor out here, just like it’s men versus women.

It’s always been men versus women, and the more I think about it, the more it pisses me off. The not all men thing grinds my gears like no other. Sure, maybe there are okay men out there, but they don’t speak up. They don’t stand with us.

It’s a joke. Damn near every man’s a bad man when given the opportunity. My faith in the dick-swinging kind has been at an all-time low for years now, and it doesn’t appear to be on the upswing anytime soon.

So, as I stand in the darkness that is Brock Hard’s bedroom, staring down at him as he sleeps soundlessly, totally unaware of my presence, I can’t help but feel a certain type of satisfaction, something that only washes over me when I’m about to seal the deal.

Brock Hard is going to die tonight.

I carefully set down my bag on the floor, all without making a sound. I wear all black, my dyed hair tucked into a beanie, so it isn’t like he’d notice me if he suddenly woke up. Still, better quiet than not. Now’s not the time to make lots of noise, not until I have that sharp knife in my hand.

When the knife is sharp enough, you’d be surprised how easily it can slide into flesh and pierce the heart. Even someone like me, someone who doesn’t quite have the muscles to back it up, can end someone’s life easily with a super sharp knife like that.

My bag’s zipper is undone, only a flap I can reach under to pull out my chosen weapon that stands in my way.

I wear gloves as to not get my fingerprints on anything.

This will be my third rodeo, although I’m not out here making a name for myself.

Until I’m satisfied in what I’m doing, I’m riding on the coattails of another serial killer this city has.

Yep, our city has its own serial killer—the D.D.K., AKA the Downtown Dismemberer. The K stands for killer, of course, but when you spell it out, D.D. just doesn’t have the same ring to it, so the shorthand has always been D.D.K.

The Downtown Dismemberer dismembers his victims, obviously.

It’s all in the name. With how big serial killers are on social media these days, it didn’t take too long to find pictures of crime scenes.

Hacking away at a body is a lot harder than simply impaling said body with a knife, but I did my best to mimic the first two times I did this.

Things got messy, so I learned to bring a plastic rain poncho during the sawing bit, along with a change of pants and those plastic things that go around your shoes.

I wouldn’t say I’m a master at it, but the news credited the two killings to D.D.K., which is all I wanted. If I could continue to skate by in the shadows of a different serial killer for a while, I’ll be happy. I’m not ready to step into the limelight, so to speak, all by myself. Not yet.

I find my knife in my bag, finally, and I’m seconds from pulling it out and straightening myself, but before I have the chance, my ears hear something.

It’s late. So late that Brock Hard sleeps soundly. He lives alone, so it’s not a roomie situation. And yet, as I freeze and listen, the sounds I’m hearing become unmistakable.

Someone else is here. I’m not alone.

Shit.

I drop the knife into the bag and quietly push it beneath his bed before I straighten myself out and tiptoe to the bedroom door. It’s cracked, and as I lean closer to it, the sounds I’m hearing only get louder.

Someone’s coming this way. Double shit.

The only place to hide quickly is, as cliched as it might be, the stupid closet across from the bed.

I move fast, staying as quiet as possible, and thank goodness the sliding door to said closet doesn’t creak as I open it.

I slip inside, get a face full of clothes, and then do my best to close the closet door from the inside.

Not the easiest thing to do, but I manage, and then I hunch down, onto my knees, and wait.

The closet has slats, so I can see out a bit.

Not too well, but enough. With my eyes adjusted to the darkness, if someone comes into the bedroom, I’ll see them.

Honestly, I don’t know who the hell it could be.

It isn’t like I sprung this out of nowhere tonight; I planned this shit.

I wouldn’t have picked him if he had roomies.

You know, wanted to make things easy on me, relatively speaking. I’m a five-foot-tall woman who stopped growing back in sixth grade. There’s no way I could take on multiple people at once.

My heart beats wildly in my chest, and I hold my breath when I hear the bedroom door get pushed open further.

Someone else is definitely here, and I get an eyeful of shadows as someone moves across the room.

Someone big, someone tall. That someone, whoever they may be, goes to stand beside the bed, next to Brock Hard.

It’s next to impossible to see what he’s doing, since the guy is also wearing all-black, but I’m pretty sure I see him reach into his pocket for something, and then he pulls it out and brings it to Brock Hard’s face.

Brock wakes, but he fights for only a few seconds before he becomes still. Didn’t help, of course, that his body is beneath the sheets. He was basically a sitting duck for this other random guy.

Seriously, what the hell is going on?

The guy standing next to Brock Hard speaks, “It’s done.” His voice is low and rough, scratchy in all the right ways. It takes a few seconds for it to hit me, though: he wouldn’t say something like that to himself.

Which means he’s not alone.

Triple shit. This is going from bad to worse with no signs of stopping anytime soon.

Suddenly, the light in the room is flicked on, and though I’m only looking through the slats of the closet door, I’m still blinded and have to blink multiple times for my vision to adjust. By the time I’m not blinded by the light, a second man in all black stands near the first, and this one is even taller.

First man has a thick head of charcoal gray hair, but the thing is, he didn’t sound too old.

Second man has short blond hair, but beyond that and the black clothes they both wear, that’s all I can discern.

A strap of something goes around both their heads, and my immediate assumption is they’re wearing masks.

“That was easy,” the first man says. “Let’s—” He moves, and before he can say anything else, his foot kicks something that is apparently not shoved under the bed far enough.

My bag.

My heart beats fast for a whole different reason, and I bite my bottom lip as I watch the first guy bend over and pull out my bag.

Since Brock is apparently unconscious, he’s unhurried in picking it up and placing it on the edge of the mattress, and he flips open the flap on it and starts to pull out my stuff.

And that’s when I notice both newcomers are wearing leather gloves, just like me.

“What’s that?” the second man asks as he leans closer to the first.

“I don’t know.” As he says that, he pulls out my knife. My knife. That knife glimmers in the light of the room. “Looks like a kill bag or something. Do we know if this guy is a killer, too?”

Second guy shakes his head. “Hawthorne didn’t say anything about that.”

“Hmm. Doesn’t matter. Let’s tie him up so we can get this show on the road.” He sets my knife in my bag and puts it aside, on the small, modern nightstand next to the bed, while the second guy goes to retrieve a bag he must’ve left near the door. When he returns, he’s carrying rope.

Wait. Rope? This can’t be. They can’t be…

The longer I’m in the closet, watching what they do, the more obvious it becomes.

The men are wearing masks, old hockey masks, to be precise, and they work in unison, each of them fixing one side of Brock Hard to the bed with multiple pieces of rope, stretching his limbs as far as they would go, until Brock is an X on the bed, arms and legs stretched to the extremes.