Chapter 2
Tati
Three years ago…
Stay cool.
I inhale, trying to ground myself. I know I fucked up on a few things tonight, but I don’t have time to dwell on that. I know my brother and his friends will be arriving in approximately twenty-six minutes.
Like most idiot serial killers, they’re habitual. I have a running theory on why most serial killers are men, and it has more to do with ego—nurture than it does with evolution—nature. Because women were—are hunters too.
Are men more likely to commit a violent crime?
Yes.
However, I challenge the idea of what is considered violence.
The physicality, the actual harming of someone with some object, is indisputable, as they are the visible markers of harm being committed.
But psychologically—the cerebral torment, I argue, is a form of violence that can do more harm and leaves lasting invisible scars.
And women—we like to play with our toys before we break them in a way that is unseen by the naked eye.
I swing my duffle over my shoulder, hooking it on one of the closest and sturdiest tree branches while I continue to use my philosophical rant as a grounding technique. Because why count when you can theorize the validity of what is deemed violence and how it’s used to profile serial killers.
Settling into my spot, I double-check that everything is in its rightful place.
Night scope binoculars—check.
Shurikens—check.
Guns, garrote wires, and knives—check, check, and check.
My gaze shifts to the most important item.
Guilie. I run my hand along the black duffel.
Its contents are often believed to hold a sniper rifle.
And while I do enjoy the long-distance kills, it’s less satisfying than the up-in-your-face exterminations.
The kind when I get to hear the screams as the barbed wire from my bat rips flesh from the bone like a lioness in the wild.
The screech of brakes announces my prey.
Glancing down, I watch as the black Dodge Ram 3500 stops just outside the gate to the property. It’s soon followed by a black Chevy Silverado 1500 and a black Ford F-150. The Ford has the trailer with this year’s victims for their hunt.
The bitter tang of blood assaults my taste buds as I bite the inside of my cheeks.
Disgust, anger, and frustration claw at my gut with the reminder of how many times I’ve had to sit and watch as victim after victim was slain by the four brutes—their ritualistic brand of killing mimicking that of my adopted family twelve years ago.
My eyes snap shut, and I grant myself the one moment I’ve allowed myself to feel before shutting my emotions off.
Because you can’t be meticulous if you run on emotions.
Mistakes are made when you’re ruled by your heart and not your head. It’s one of the many rules I live by—one of the many I’ve been taught to live by.
“Please tell me we got a good batch this time.” The sound of Griff’s voice is like nails against a chalkboard, irritating beyond measure. Not to mention, he’s about as smart as a block of wood, which is an insult to a block of wood’s intelligence if I’m being honest.
I roll my eyes before opening them and peer down at the scene illuminated by the high beams of the trucks as Mikah steps onto the grass.
He slams the door shut before striding for the trailer and opens it. “That’s what I was told,” he replies.
A knot the size of a Mega Jawbreaker lodges in my throat as eight people, strung together by chains and blindfolded, are led down the ramp.
This year’s batch deserves to die. But it’s not who the people are that gives me pause—it’s the number.
Eight.
Seven members—murdered, and the one who got away.
Me.
Every time they come out here, there are always eight people as they try to right the perceived wrong.
“They’d better last longer than last year’s batch,” Fredrick whines like the whiny punk he is. “It’s boring when they die after only being on the run for like twenty minutes.”
Jackson hums his agreement. “Twenty minutes is being too generous. It was more like fifteen, and none of them put up much of a fight. Even your siblings fought back more, Mi—”
My molars begin to ache, and I know I’m seconds away from breaking skin with how hard my fists clench together. The rage blinding me slowly clears in time to see Jackson eat the rest of his words. He flipped the invisible trip wire.
“Jackson,” Fredrick sighs. “You’re not usually this level of stupid. Why the fuck would you even bring them up?”
He mutters something unintelligible to the naked ear, but my drones and mics are all up and running.
So, I don’t miss him calling Mikah a pussy ass bitch for his little girl emotions over his dead brothers and sisters, and I make a mental note to force feed him his teeth when I serve him his death on a gourmet platter.
The cold, heartless dick will be lucky if I don’t skin him alive.
“Let’s just fucking get started already,” Griff complains. “I have a girl waiting for me at the house.”
“Is she willing this time?” Jackson snorts.
Arching a brow, Griff retorts, “Does it matter?”
Jackson tips his head back, barking out laughter at such an obnoxious decibel that it causes three of the eight victims to jump. He’s so lost in his own amusement that he misses the look of retribution, promising to make him pay for his earlier words, that crosses Mikah’s face.
Stomping to the gate, Mikah punches in the code.
10T31A-2017.
“Even the fucking entry code is predictable,” I huff, studying every move made. A spec of dust can’t float by without my observation of it. Then, I wait, counting every rhythmic beat of my heart.
Fifteen minutes pass before I make my next move.
Always wait until the dust settles and then wait some more. One of the many recon rules I’ve learned over the last several years. Just as I begin my descent, a shrill cry booms into the autumn air.
Freezing instantly, I refocus my gaze on the potential origin of the sounds.
“You stupid bitch!” I can’t make out who’s shouting, but they’re pissed beyond measure.
A branch snaps to my right, forcing my attention away for the briefest of moments. It’s enough to assess that something or someone moved, but not enough to figure out who or what made the noise. But I don’t get a chance to dwell on the unknown before three people are charging towards the gate.
“Get the fuck back here!” Blasts through the night sky, revealing a cherry red Griff and a somewhat manic-looking Fredrick.
Assholes can’t even play with their food correctly. My point is further made as I watch Jackson and Mikah join in the hunt.
I instantly recognize one of the victims trying to escape, and my face scrunches up in confusion.
What is he doing here?
Dr. Winston Parks—the Chemist. All around, vile waste of human meat sack. He’s directly and indirectly responsible for the deaths of hundreds of people when he released his neurotoxins into the reservoir of a small rural community.
That incident landed him one of the most influential positions within Serge Volkov’s Bratva. He’s not someone you want to enter the chat when Serge wants to punish you.
Winston Parks is a madman—a brilliant madman, but a madman just the same. His penchant for poison nearly rivals Izzy’s.
“I wonder what you did to piss off the powers that be that they offered you up to these sick fucks?” I mutter into the void, wishing it would answer me back.
I’m so focused on the exchange that I almost fall out of the tree when the first shot is fired.
“Stupid bastard,” Fredrick shouts, firing another round at whoever he’s chasing. “Didn’t I tell you not to run until I said fucking go?”
The person’s body topples to the ground, jerking as half his face scatters into the dead of night.
Underwhelmed, I refocus on Mikah, bypassing Griff and Jackson as they continue to chase Winston.
“Where did you think you were going?” Mikah seethes, gripping the throat of a woman I don’t recognize, and I kick myself for not reading their files more closely.
She’s a curvy, mid-sized blonde with barely any clothing left on. Her shirt’s been ripped down the middle, exposing what was once a white bra, but now is caked in blood and muck.
My chest tightens, and a small sliver of sympathy snakes its way up to my heart. I know what’s in store for her tonight. She’s going to be brutalized in ways that will make her pray for death.
“Bet you never thought you’d end up in our hands, did you, Sonja?”
Recognition slaps me across the face, triggering a memory, and all sympathy for this woman vanishes. This bitch is definitely not a girl’s girl. She may just be worse than these animals.
Sonja Solovyova—the Madam.
These guys suck at names. Like, how unoriginal can you be? The Chemist—the Madam.
Negative five stars for creativity.
Sonja begs, slipping in and out of Russian, for her life. But fuck her life.
“How many women and children begged you for their lives, hmmm?” Mikah’s question drips with condescension. “How many pretty little girls and boys did you offer up before having spa days and lattes?”
“Pozhaluysta,” she hiccups. “Please, Mikah. I-I-I have money or girls.” Sonja pauses, and I watch as the gears in her brain try to figure out which bargaining lever to pull in order to escape with her life.
Fucking skin peddler.
“Not so tough now, are you?” Mikah mocks, tightening his hold around her neck. “I’ve been waiting over a decade to get my hands on you.”
Sonja’s hands fly up, nails clawing at his skin in desperation as her face goes at least five shades of red in under a second.
Don’t kill the bitch yet. That’s too easy.
“Is this how you offered up my siblings—my Talia?”
Shock. It’s the only emotion I can identify in this moment.
“Were you begging like this when you were in the clutches of the crooked governor and his buddies at that party twelve years ago?” Mikah doesn’t let up, shaking her before he launches her in the air and across the grass.