Chapter 3
One Week Later
Moonless nights are my favorite. I don’t like the daytime. I prefer the shadows.
It has nothing to do with what I do for a living—I just appreciate the darkness.
Tonight, in particular, the streets of this small Mississippi town are as still as a graveyard at dawn, even though it’s just after seven.
I breathe deep, letting the heavy air fill my lungs. It smells like danger—like the kind of night where I might be living my final minutes on Earth.
It doesn’t scare me. It turns me on.
Death is my element. Risk is my routine.
Does anyone in this quiet town have a clue about what happened a few weeks ago at one of its farms? I wouldn’t be surprised if some—or all—of the locals knew. People tend to look the other way when their own asses are on the line, and the son of a bitch I’m about to visit has power.
Little do they know, their town is about to make headlines worldwide. I wasn’t hired for revenge, not just retaliation, I was paid to turn this death into a message. A warning to all of my client’s enemies.
I drive without any rush. I’ve been here two days and already know this place like the back of my hand. I enjoy studying my target—knowing I control the moment he’ll die while he remains completely unaware.
Just like an engineer surveys the land before building, I never act on impulse. I follow my plans to the letter—but always with a bonus. A signature. A beautiful, unforgettable job. Killing is my art. No wonder my services are expensive enough that every contract could fund an early retirement.
I park about a kilometer from the main house, hiding the car in a cornfield owned by one of the bastard’s neighbors.
I know the only security is inside the property. No external cameras. No guards outside the gates.
I go over the plan in my mind.
Soon, the proud man who once interviewed kings and world leaders—whose family is the richest in this entire state—will be lying in a pool of his own blood.
The reason I’m here isn’t for the first crime he committed. But it’ll be the first one he pays for.
And the last.
In my line of work, I don’t usually take contracts personally, but I have a special kind of disgust, deeper than the one I carry for most of humanity, for those who abuse children.
Sell your drugs. Your guns. Kill your enemies. Unless I have a contract against you, you’ll never even see me. But if your business is profiting off children, there’s a chance I’ll show up at your door one day.
Free of charge.
I take pride in cleaning pedophiles off the planet. Being the reaper. The one who sends packages down to Satan, until it’s my time to meet him myself.
The money I’ll get for this contract could buy two farms like the one I own in Colombia, but I’d have done this one for free.
It’s my first time working for Beau’s[2] mentor—an old friend. I’ve never worked with the Russian mafia before.
The former Pakhan who hired me doesn’t want his Organization—now run by his grandson—linked to this death. That’s why I’m here.
Funny thing is, Ruslan only started digging into this bastard because he was poking around the Brotherhood’s[3] business. It wasn’t personal, until Ruslan uncovered what he did. And since Ruslan lost a granddaughter to pedophiles… Clyde Barnes sealed his own fate.
But if the bastard was killed and the trail led back to the Organization[4], it’d be a shitstorm.
So I got the job.
Before stepping out of the car, I glance once more into the dark and think about the last time I saw Jackie, a week ago, as she left work in New York.
She knew I was there. She always knows. I made her a promise. I imagine she feels alone. Everyone’s gone, and I’m all she has left—a silent killer acting as her guardian.
Martin’s sister is angry and hurt because I keep my distance. What she doesn’t know is that I stay away to protect her. So many times I’ve wanted to go back. Jackie is the last piece of home, of family, that I have left.
But I can’t.
She would be my weakness. And I would possibly be her death.
“And not just that,” a voice warns. “When she finds out the truth—about everything—she’ll hate you forever.”
And one day, she will have to know.
As I’ve told myself for years, someday, when she has her own family, her own support system, her own safety net, I’ll tell her the truth. And then I’ll walk out of her life forever.
Jackie, and the promise I made to protect her, is what’s left of my humanity.
She is what’s sacred to me.
For her, I would die. To keep her safe, I would turn the world upside down.
I get out of the car, double-checking my gear—knife, guns, ammo. Just two guards tonight. Neither is in the watch post; they guard the main house. Probably to stop anyone from catching their boss in the act.
But not tonight. Tonight, he’s alone. It’s his “rest” period, when he waits for his next “delivery”. A twelve-year-old girl that Ruslan, by now, has already rescued.
Wrapped in shadow, dressed head to toe in black, I’m nearly invisible in the dark countryside.
The main house is surrounded by trees. I noticed during my walks around the area that it’s unusual. Most farms in Mississippi have open land, sparse vegetation. But here, it’s almost like a forest, and the house sits in a clearing.
No doubt that’s intentional. He needs privacy.
He didn’t think that, one day, his attempt to hide what he does would make it easier for someone like me to get in and out unnoticed. I don’t need people watching what I came to do.
Every job is unique to me. I remember them all. I refine my methods like a sculptor chasing perfection.
But this one?
This one I’ll make unforgettable. A message to the degenerates in this country that no one is untouchable. Justice can come at any moment. Death is invisible—and it’s always watching.
It takes me less than thirty seconds to take out the first guard. One clean shot to the back of the head—done. The second one gives me a bit more trouble, but I disarm him quickly and slice his throat in one swift motion.
As I walk toward the main house, I slip on a mask. I don’t usually wear one, but I assume the bastard, despite his careless attitude toward personal security, has at least a few indoor cameras.
Just like I suspected, there’s no alarm system linked to the police. He never believed anyone would come for him. Hell, I doubt he even thinks anyone knows what he does. This man once produced exposés on child abuse. He won awards. While being a child predator himself.
I get into the house so easily, half the adrenaline I normally feel before a kill vanishes.
I hear music in the massive one-story home and follow the sound, cautious in case of surprises. I don’t expect any—but I never bet on luck.
His bedroom door is open. What I thought was music is actually the TV. He’s in the bathroom, probably soaking in the tub while watching something.
Then, suddenly, the sound changes.
No more music—just screaming. Not just pain or anger—pure desperation.
And I know it’s one of his victims.
The more she screams, the more he hurts her—and demands she scream louder or it’ll get worse. He enjoys her agony.
When I walk into the bathroom and he sees me, panic floods his face. He scrambles to shut off the TV—he knows he’s been caught.
I press the barrel of my gun to his temple.
“Don’t turn it off.”
I watch for about a minute. Just long enough to see what he did to those girls.
Then I pull the plug. I’m tempted to toss the TV into the water—but he doesn’t deserve such a quick death.
For the first time, I know I’m changing my plan.
This won’t be a clean, theatrical execution like Ruslan wanted. This one will hurt.
“I can—”
“Shhh… You can’t do anything, dead man.”
He looks like he’s about to puke. He knows there’s no way out.
“Where do you keep the tools you used on her?”
“What?”
“You heard me. Get out of the tub and take me to the tools you used on her.”
An hour later, I admire my own work. Shame the contract only required photos and videos to expose the body afterward, but I’m also taking footage of what he did to those girls. This bastard won’t be remembered as a hero. He’ll be remembered as the disgusting, perverted killer he truly was.
It takes me about twenty minutes to finish up. I drag the guards’ bodies inside and rig the house with a bomb.
I start walking back to where I left the car and I have to admit—I’m a little disappointed.
I always hope they’ll fight more. I crave the reaction.
But I’ve learned, after all these years, that men like Clyde Barnes are only brave against the defenseless.
When death stares them in the face, they beg.
They cry. They ask for mercy—mercy they never gave their victims.
I drive for five minutes before detonating the house.
Then I head to where my motorcycle is parked. I also rig a small bomb to the car.
Once I’m far enough away, I hit the detonator. Seconds later, the vehicle is reduced to dust.
Fires aren’t always safe—they leave traces.
Even if the cops had searched the car, even if I hadn’t destroyed it, they wouldn’t find anything.
But I’m a forensic science junkie. I study it carefully.
Technology’s advancing, and DNA recovery gets better every day.
It’s always working against the perpetrator—me.
Four hours later, I’m already on my way back to New York. I know Jackie’s being watched by one of my men, but I’m not like other guys. I’m obsessive. My priority is visiting her, protecting her.
By the next day, I’m at the building I own on the outskirts of Manhattan. I get a single buzz on my phone. I know it’s from Beau. It’s his way of saying the payment’s been made.
To me, the mission’s already in the past.