Chapter 4
KIP
“Get back,” I ordered Death and shut the door. “We’ve got someone watching us. I have no idea who it is, but you know the drill. Go! Now!”
When Death had acquired the decrepit, abandoned building—an old warehouse with peeling black paint and windows boarded up like blind eyes—we’d understood that someday we might get caught.
Despite our relentless efforts to avoid it, we were human and fucked up.
And today was that day. Even though Death and I had poured sweat and tears over the last few years carving a hidden tunnel beneath the building, we had never needed to use it—until now.
I whipped my head around, and my throat went dry as I watched my friend fade into the shadows.
My stare locked onto the pathetic bastard lurking outside the shattered window.
The corners of my lips curled like a man possessed, and I cracked my knuckles, ready for the chase.
The thrill of terrifying someone was second nature to me.
Honestly, I was glad Death had to leave.
It was my opportunity to handle someone myself.
An opportunity I’d denied myself for way too long.
I eased the heavy door open, searching for his hiding place. “It’s your lucky day, motherfucker. Come out, come out wherever you are,” I said in a singsong voice.
I walked outside, dry leaves and twigs crunching beneath my footsteps. Other than a few scattered trees, the field was open, and my new friend had few places to hide. I also knew the property like the back of my hand, which gave me a substantial advantage.
I reached a massive oak and every muscle tensed while I strained to catch the slightest sound that would betray the guy’s hidden location.
A flock of birds erupted from the field, shattering the silence.
I released a low, devious chuckle. The dumb ass must be creeping along the ground, clumsily startling the birds.
With predatory precision, I moved in the direction from which the birds had taken flight.
Vivid, ruthless images of what I intended to do to him surged through my mind, and I fought to suppress a sinister grin.
“There’s no use hiding, you stupid bastard. I’m going to catch you and when I do …”
The tall grass rustled, then he launched himself across the field with desperate speed.
It seemed he was hell-bent on reaching the sanctuary of the forest before I could close in.
Fueled by adrenaline, I rushed forward, the wind slashing against my cheeks as I accelerated.
In mere moments, I snatched the collar of his burgundy shirt and yanked him back with brute force.
He crashed into me, and I coiled my arm around his neck with relentless pressure.
His fingers clawed at my arm, a futile struggle for breath as he gasped and fought against me.
In a rough whisper, he said, “I didn’t see anything, man. I was coming out here to smoke so my wife wouldn’t catch me.”
“Doesn’t matter. You were at the wrong place at the wrong time.
Nighty night, asshole.” I locked in the chokehold, counting the seconds as his limbs twitched and then stilled.
His weight sagged against me, deadweight.
No resistance. No fight. Telling me he had passed out cold.
I grunted as I turned his limp body, then tossed him over my shoulder.
I’d carried plenty of bodies before, but this one was still alive.
Adrenaline pumped through my veins, my pulse throbbing in my neck as the thrill of what was to come overshadowed any potential consequences.
Upon reaching one of the back rooms, I positioned my victim against a corner wall while I gathered the necessary ropes and tools.
I had limited time before he regained consciousness, so I moved swiftly.
I secured ropes to two pulleys on opposite sides of the room, then tied them around his wrists and ankles.
Confident in my knots, I pulled him to the center of the room.
He let out a groan as I turned the handles on the first and then the second pulley, watching as the ropes stretched him in all directions until he was upright.
His head lolled to the side, his jeans and T-shirt grungy from the woods.
I guessed he was in his late thirties and had lived a full life from the ink that covered his arms—fire, angels, snakes, and skull.
My intuition told me he wasn’t someone to let go.
He would come back for me. Sorry, motherfucker, not happening.
His eyelids flickered open, and I watched as his features morphed from confusion to terror.
“Welcome back. Did you have a nice nap?”
He tugged on the restraints, frantic as his mind allowed him to fully take in the situation. “What the fuck is wrong with your eyes, man?”
Over the years, I’d thoroughly enjoyed fucking with people when necessary. I was well aware of how messed up my eyes were.
I pinned him with a sharp glare, ignoring his question. “What’s your name?” I walked behind him while I waited for him to talk.
“Fuck you,” he growled.
“Wrong answer.” I stopped and reached into the back pocket of his dirt-covered blue jeans. Removing his wallet, I flipped it open and searched for his driver’s license.
“Michael Ruppert Branson.” My laugh echoed across the room. “Ruppert, huh? Bet you got teased while growing up.”
Michael remained quiet, observing me as I paced the room.
Although I could continue this indefinitely, time wasn't on my side. Turning to look at him, I felt the cross’s weight pressing against my chest under my shirt.
I reached in, took it out, and gripped it tightly, the sharp stainless-steel edges cutting into my hand.
I flipped the blade out, and he recoiled in shock.
“I didn’t see anything. I swear to fucking god!”
“I don’t believe your bullshit story. You were too close to the building.
If I were in your … restraints, I would lie too.
” I paced the room, pretending to be in deep thought.
After another moment of silence, I approached him, my nose only a few inches from his.
“If you tell me the truth, I’ll let you go with a warning. ”
He stared in surprise, hope flickering to life in his eyes. Hope was a dangerous thing.
“You promise?” His chin trembled with the question.
“I’m a man of my word.” I placed my palm on my chest directly over my heart, stifling the smirk that tried to emerge.
In some ways I wasn’t lying. Years ago, I had vowed to protect my best friend, Death, no matter the situation or consequences.
That had been my word, and I would continue to honor it.
Michael blinked several times, then blurted, “There were guts and … I saw some fingers. But that was it. I didn’t see who they belonged to, man.
I swear. And you and the other dude had those masks on so I couldn’t see anything.
I promise. If you hadn’t run after me, I wouldn’t have seen who you were.
” He gulped several times, waiting for me to respond.
“But you can identify me. Then, they can track down my friend who was with me, and that shit simply can’t happen.”
“You’re not going to let me go? I won’t tell anyone, I promise … please.” Panic clung to him as sweat beaded across his forehead.
I arched my brow at him. This fucker was gullible as hell to believe I would let him go, and he confessed so damn fast.
“Tell me, Michael, are you familiar with the blood eagle?”
“Never heard of it.” He tugged on the ropes in a vain attempt to get loose.
“There are rumors about it. No one’s sure if the Vikings actually used the form of torture or not.
Those sons of bitches were ruthless, so I could see it being one of their favorite pastimes.
” I paused. “Basically, the person’s back was slashed in order to allow access to the ribs.
They were then broken and twisted upward to resemble wings.
Often someone died before the ribs were even broken due to the loss of blood.
It’s debated if the ritual was only legend or if it was actually used.
Regardless, it’s going to be used today.
” I sneered as I watched his piss soak his jeans, then splatter on the concrete floor.
“I swear to god, I won’t tell anyone! I have no idea who you or the other guy is. You can’t fucking do this. I have a family, kids.”
I laughed as he blubbered with every reason I shouldn’t kill him.
“Your cries are falling on deaf ears. You were here at the wrong time. It’s game over.”
His sobs rang out through the room as I played with the blade from my cross. “First, I’ll give you a tattoo on your back, so I know where to make the first cuts.”
“You’re a fucking psycho, man!”
An evil grin crept over my expression. “You have no idea, but you’re about to find out.”
Hours flew by in a frenzy of skin and screams, and then I cleaned up the mess.
Every cut I inflicted, every drop of Michael’s blood that stained my hands, every one of his cries that echoed in my ears was worth it.
I would do anything to protect Death—to protect those who meant the world to me—the ones I would murder for.
Michael had been a thorn in our side, a problem that needed to be solved.
And as I plunged my knife into his back, feeling the satisfying slickness of his flesh parting beneath it, I understood the thrill and power that Death must feel when he exacted justice.
A twisted sense of satisfaction washed over me, and for the first time, I understood the rush that came with taking a life.
I’d assisted Death before, cleaned his messes, carried his burdens—but this kill was mine alone.
The exhilaration was raw, dangerous, a demon inside me begging to be fed again.
Mother would drag me to her church pastor if she knew.
But it wasn’t about justice. It was about survival—because if I didn’t give my darkness somewhere to go, it would eat me alive.
And staring down at Michael’s lifeless body, I knew one thing with absolute certainty—I would do it again, without hesitation.
As the first rays of sunlight pierced through the early morning sky, I bid farewell to the warehouse and embarked on a leisurely drive back to the city.
I rarely took the same way twice in case I was being followed.
The quiet roads were bordered by lush green fields, their dewy blades sparkling in the warm golden light.
As I approached, the skyline grew larger and more imposing, with towering buildings reaching toward the heavens like giants among men.
The city pulsed with raw energy and life, a stark contrast to the place I had left behind.
I stifled a yawn and reminded myself to reach out to Death later to make sure he was on his way back east. Hopefully, he would stay there and not return to Portland for a while.
His presence was complicating matters, and we had to be careful.
When his bloodlust returned, it was with a vengeance.
Would the same thing happen to me if I continued to kill?
I barked out a laugh. Like I fucking cared.
Since I was well trained as a cleaner by my uncle, I could get away with more than most. I’d never left any evidence behind when I’d cleaned for Death. I sure as hell wouldn’t start now.
“God Needs the Devil” by Jonah Kagen played softly over the car speakers as I hopped on I-5 and approached the hospital.
I slowed and obeyed the speed limit, since the last fucking thing I needed was to get pulled over for speeding with tools and chemicals in my trunk.
It would take some time to clean up everything and hide the car in a back alley behind the surgery center.
I caught sight of a white Mercedes speeding out of the underground garage on a collision course with me. My heart kicked into overdrive while I swerved at the last possible second and slammed on the brakes, narrowly avoiding the impact.
“Goddammit! Watch where—” I started, but then I found myself looking directly at a redheaded woman in the driver’s seat, her face frozen in terror.
The world spun around me as I was thrown against the seat belt. Confused and shaken, I hesitated, unsure whether to feel anger or relief. Moments later, with my mind still reeling, I drove into the side parking lot and stopped the car.
“Son of a bitch.” My thoughts spun out like a whirlwind as I tried to convince myself that the driver of the Mercedes wasn’t who I thought it was. It was literally fucking impossible. Yet, doubt gnawed at me.
An oppressive weight settled on my chest as I grappled with the idea that I might be losing my grip on reality, teetering dangerously close to the edge of sanity once more.
I climbed out of the car, the warm air chilling my sweat-slickened skin as the stomach-churning memories seeped into my head like a sickening fog, suffocating me with their gruesome details.
I paced the length of the car and attempted to talk myself out of what I’d seen.
She was only a mirage, my mind playing twisted tricks on me after I’d murdered someone like a cold psychopath.
If this was what guilt felt like, maybe I did have a soul.
It might be pitch black, but I’d take that over not having one at all.
But every time I rubbed my palms over my clammy skin in an attempt to scrub away the doubts, a different aspect of the woman’s appearance jumped out at me—her fiery red hair, piercing blue eyes, and full lips.
As hard as I tried to dismiss the woman, it didn’t take long to realize my efforts were futile. That meant only one thing.