So Deadly (Faith Bold #32)

PROLOGUE

Thomas Webb whistled to himself as he slid the boxcutter in a smooth horizontal motion.

The blade whispered as it separated the tape.

Two more brief slices, and the top flaps of the box popped up, releasing the stale plastic odor of packing peanuts.

Underneath that odor, a fascinating bouquet of fresh linen, ink, and new car: an eclectic mix that told him the objects inside were top-notch, as they should be.

Thomas pulled open the flaps and planted his hands on his hips as he looked down at the mound of puffy pink S-shaped Styrofoam nuggets. That was going to be a bitch to clean up, but he didn’t care. He was looking at almost pure cash in the form of items he could sell for far more than he paid.

He leaned over, groaning softly as he pulled the top object out of the box. It came free with a puff of stale wind and a semi-cyclonic billow of peanuts that drifted up, hovered, then settled slowly down to the floor.

“Oh yeah,” he said, grinning as he held the sturdy nylon vest up to the light. “Yeah, this is good. This is quality.”

Quality was important. It was what set him apart from all the other hacks offering fake service dog vests.

A brick of Styrofoam—no offense, packing peanuts—shoved into a cheap cotton pillowcase with duct tape spelling out SERVICE DOG might work as a child’s toy, but his clients were discerning.

More importantly, the self-important dipwads who policed service animals were discerning. This? This looked like the real thing.

“Real enough for rock ‘n roll,” he said.

He placed the vest back in the box, clasped his hands, and stretched. Something released in his lower back, and he moaned in satisfaction. "Oh yeah," he repeated again. "That's the ticket."

He headed to his desk to check his orders, pointing a finger gun at the beaming tenth-grader talking about Nanafoam, the new product he and his classmates had invented that would reduce waste by some ridiculous and probably made-up number.

He preferred to have orders packed and ready for shipment—sans return address, of course—before he went to bed every night.

That way, he could delete all records of the transaction and scrub his hard drive.

Laundering the money was a little harder, but since it all flowed through a business based in Malaysia, there was at least a high likelihood he would be warned if something went down.

It should give him time to shut everything down before it could come back to him.

What he was doing was pretty far down the list of priorities for law enforcement, but it was illegal and could carry a prison sentence.

Thomas loved comfort far too much to sleep on a concrete shelf for the next five to ten.

He sat in front of his desk, sighing as his butt settled into the high-backed memory foam massaging seat he’d purchased with the profit from his most recent batch of orders. God, life was good.

“And with nanofoam, we hope to—”

“You knew this was coming, Tommy. You knew all along. Those nightmares you’ve been having? They were prophecies.”

Thomas stiffened slightly. A shiver went down his spine. He really didn’t like that coincidence.

He turned around in his chair. The television had changed its own channel somehow. Instead of rosy-cheeked teens proclaiming their love for the planet, he was watching some B-horror demon tear Mr. Tommy TV to over-the-top, gory shreds.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, getting to his feet. “How do people watch this shit?”

He reached for the arm of the couch where he had left the tv remote. His fingers slid across the old terry cloth—he’d replace the couch next—and closed on nothing.

A chill ran down his spine. He knew he’d left the remote there.

He always left it there. He’d lived in this apartment for twenty years, and the remote for every television he’d ever owned had remained firmly planted on the left arm of his ratty old couch except when it was in his hand and pointed at the screen.

A shadow fell over his arm, darkening the faded slate of the cloth into bruise-purple. He swallowed and stared at his empty left hand, willing the remote to appear, terrified to look up and see what had cast that shadow.

The demon on the screen chuckled. “It’s like the preacher said, Tommy. The wages of sin… is DEA—”

The screen switched off. A soft squeak passed Tommy’s lips. He swallowed, pressed his eyes shut, and promised himself that when he looked up, everything would be okay.

He looked up.

Another soft cry escaped him. He took a step back and stared at the creature in the doorway, unable to believe what his eyes were showing him.

A demon stood in front of him, slender, sinuous, clad in what he hoped was black leather and not some sort of rough skin. Claws extended from its fingertips. It had the build of a human but the face of a snarling dog.

He took another step back, left arm flailing behind him for the phone that his brain didn’t register was still six feet behind him on his desk. The figure took a step to follow him.

He swallowed. “Yo, what the—”

The figure rushed toward him with alarming speed. He cried out and lunged for his cell phone.

The demon got to him first. For a few seconds, he screamed. Then its claws found his throat.