Chapter 2
KNOX
Somebody was stealing my prey. I narrowed my eyes at the large evidence board in our briefing room, scanning the photos of criminals all around New York City.
I looked at one of my detectives, Officer Brandon Sharpe. “Have you narrowed them down to the list I gave you?”
His eyes met mine briefly before he turned back to the board. “Yes, Lieutenant Steele. Every missing suspect under the charges of rape, domestic violence, assault, arson, and any other form of violence against women that was reported and went unpunished is noted here.”
The evidence board was littered with over one hundred red pins marking the suspect's last known location. I did not like the sheer number of thumbtacks on the board.
Men were going missing.
Hundreds of suspects were most likely dead.
And we never noticed. We never caught on.
Someone was cleaning up my streets without my knowledge.
We seemed to have a vigilante out on the streets, avenging women and being their hero.
Rage simmered in my veins. The need to hunt this vigilante and bury him in the middle of nowhere clawed at my brain, but I reined it the fuck in. My muscles tensed where I’d crossed my arms over my chest.
In this room, I was the cold motherfucker Lieutenant Steele. Not the prosocial psychopath Knox, who had found a legal way to hunt people, torture them, and watch them suffer and die.
I had spent thirty-five years honing the control and discipline not to kill whoever I wanted.
Not to do whatever the beast in my mind screamed at me to do.
I kept that motherfucker muzzled and shackled in heavy chains.
It took a fucking excruciating effort. An effort that sometimes cost me my sanity.
I did not ever harm an innocent person. I never committed unauthorized violence against a suspect. I never took matters into my own hands. I followed the fucking law. Those were the rules I had lived by ever since I joined the force.
Not because I cared about people. Not because I felt the need to protect them. I didn’t feel a damn thing for the victims or the suspects.
All I cared about was finding a risk-free outlet for the hungry, violent beast that was my mind.
I could’ve easily killed every suspect tacked on the board. I fucking wanted to.
But did I? No.
Not because they were innocent. I knew every single one of them was guilty of their crimes. Every one of them deserved to die. But because they were let go by the justice system, it was out of my jurisdiction. Out of my fucking hands. And hence, out of my fucking mind.
I had a hundred other cases to solve. Criminals to catch.
But this motherfucking vigilante was having his fun by killing off criminals. Killing off people no one would miss. Doing something that I would fucking love to do, but I’d never let myself indulge like that.
This motherfucker was smart. He was not only successful in tracking the suspect but also in eliminating them, doing it so fucking clean that we had zero leads.
Except for one single lead. One single commonality among all the dead suspects tacked on the board.
Every suspect had committed a crime against women.
And I was going to hunt the fucking bastard who’d dared to play in my backyard.
I turned to Brandon. “Do you think the”—I rolled my eyes before the word left my mouth—“vigilante who took out these suspects might be responsible for the Russian mob hit in the Bronx three months ago?”
Brandon straightened, his gaze moving between the board and me. “Boss, that is a strong possibility. We did, in fact, rescue eight women who’d gone missing.”
My gaze turned sharper at his answer, and he shrank under my glare. “We didn’t rescue any women, Brandon. We were handed the rescued women on a fucking platter, along with fifty dead Russians.”
“You’re right, boss. But if it is indeed the vigilante who took down the Russians, he is resourceful and very powerful.”
He was right. “We’re going to catch him. Put me as the lead for this case. Reassign Jones to the homicide case from last week. I’ll send him all the evidence and my latest report with all the findings.”
Brandon’s finger automatically went to his ear—a tell for when he’s nervous about telling me something.
“What is it, Brandon?” I grumbled, my eyes still glued to the hundreds of missing suspects.
He cleared his throat. “Umm. We haven’t heard from Jones in the past twenty-four hours.”
Jones was one of the most punctual officers in my department.
He was usually here early and left on time.
He didn’t close many cases, but sometimes you just needed men to handle the grunt work and the paperwork.
He did both of them fairly well for me to keep him on my squad.
I couldn’t even recollect the last time that guy had taken a day off.
I turned to Brandon. “Did you call his place?”
“Twice. No response.”
“Do we have a way to contact his wife?”
“I called her too. The number is out of service.”
Our eyes met in understanding. “Was he close to anyone in the precinct? A friend?”
Brandon shrugged. “Not that I know of. He’s not very talkative. Should one of us go check his place?”
My instincts screamed that something was very wrong. “I need you to go. And take Clark with you.”
“Yes, boss.” With a cautious tone, he asked, “Do you think he could be in trouble? Any perp get to him, you think?”
“He could be. Yes. But let’s not jump to any conclusions. Check his place. Make some calls. Report back to me at noon. We’ll file a missing person’s report if we need to.”
“Got it, boss.”
With that, Brandon left the briefing room, leaving me behind with the glaring reminder of all the fucking fun that the vigilante was having with absolutely no consequences.
Not anymore.
I got to chase the criminals.
I got to serve them justice.
I got to fucking torture them, hurt them, and make them fucking cry.
I wasn’t here to go running after a wannabe fucking vigilante who got to have all his fun in my territory.
Fuck that.
I was going to find that motherfucker and put him in the ground myself.