Chapter 9 #2
“Have you ever put a knife in someone?” I ask, flicking my ashes on his priceless Persian rug splayed over the marble floor.
“ Specifically , have you felt a blade pierce through the intercostal muscles between a man’s ribs?
I must admit, the first time I killed that was not in self-defense, I had been shocked at the thrill I derived from it.
The extraordinary intensity of pure pleasure…
Feeling the slight vibration in my hand when steel grates against bone…
It travels right up the blade, you know.
Such a little detail, really, yet so satisfying…
The little things , eh? I learned early on to appreciate the little things. ”
Reaching into my back pocket, I produce another small knife. This one, barely three inches long with an arrowhead-shaped blade and a T-style handle meant to sit in the palm of your hand.
“ Little things …like Push Blades .” I grin and take another long drag from the cigarette. His gaze settles on the uniquely shaped dagger. “You’ve got a taste for little things , don’t you, Mr. Pierce? Little girls , to be precise.”
His eyes snap up from the blade in my hand to meet mine again. “It’s not like that…I swear to God…”
“Those words are meaningless to me.”
“What do you want to know? Fuck! Just tell me what you want to know!”
“ Cassidy Jones . I want to know where she is.”
“I don’t know who that is!”
“A girl…sold through one of your auctions. Where is she?”
“I… I don’t know their names…the girls… They’re just product I move… I’m just a middleman…a businessman, doing business with other middlemen.”
That is a fucking lie. I’ve done my research on this man.
It has taken me the better part of a year to track him down…
slithering among the dregs of the underworld.
I stalked my targets, rubbed elbows with the worst of humankind in back alleyways and dark, grungy basements…
Pretending to sift through vile pornographic materials as if bored with the status quo.
All the while, hoping to never come across photos of my younger self, for trade or for sale…
The chill of my past runs through me like an icy river, but I shake it off on the release of a weary sigh.
I am tired. I long to be in her warm presence once more… Though I know I cannot return to her empty-handed. I have been fulfilling my promises alongside this self-inflicted mission, in the hopes of winning her favor…or at least, her fucking tolerance!
Vanna…my love…my sweet one… If you only knew what I have done to redeem myself in your eyes… How I’ve tried to wash away my own sins with the blood of these heinous monsters…
I bring the girl’s photo up on my cellphone and hold the screen in his face. Recognition flickers behind his eyes.
“I have very bloody reasons, extracted from men just like you, to believe she was part of your stable not long ago… Who bought her?”
He hesitates, and I stand to move closer.
“I won’t let this little blade reach your lungs yet… However, the pain it will cause, not only when I push it inside you…but when I twist it between your ribs… I daresay you will feel that radiating from the point of penetration, all through your back and–”
“ Please , I don’t know where she is!”
I bend to place a hand upon his strained shoulder, lowering my face closer to his. A bead of sweat drips down the olive skin of his face as I press the blade’s tip against his body, letting him feel it settle between two ribs.
“ I killed my own brother … I have spent the last years of my wretched existence hunting down and slaughtering what remained of our crew… Your men downstairs are all dead. Do you really think I will hesitate to lay your soul to waste as well?” I give him a moment to process my words.
When he swallows hard, I continue. “Where is she? Simply point me in her direction…and this will come to an end.”
“I bought her in a lot of seven girls, months ago…” he begins.
I already know where he procured her. Those sources have been eradicated. Though I, directly , played no part in the girl being trafficked, she had originally been taken by a member of the Chrome Demons. It pains me to admit, Vanna’s accusation the last night we were together had not been far off.
“She was the least… photogenic …”
If his next words are that she was shipped out of the country, carved up for her organs, or dispatched in a torture-porn flick on the dark web, I will gut his wife before him…
right here on this fucking ottoman. We will both watch the life drain from her body as her blood pools within the button tufting of the supple leather.
Something in my expression must have terrified him. He speaks faster now. “A crew I buy my party drugs from. They took her off our hands. They run a small-time prostitution ring.”
“A name.”
“Tweaker…he’s the boss of the crew.”
I grip the switchblade embedded in his leg, and he yelps when I yank it free of his flesh. His terror truly sets in when I bring the crimson-coated blade to his throat.
“You…you s-said you’d let me live!”
“I said I would cut you free , or I’d set you free . Two meanings, or one and the same? For you, there is only one meaning, Mr. Pierce… Winter is the final season...”
His shouts of desperation fall on deaf ears.
Kill him…
Keep killing…
Kill them all… They would have killed you, too… Though didn’t they, pretty one? Kill some piece of you, at least?
In a bloody flourish, my blade goes to work…the darkness residing within me consuming us both.
Stepping back, devoid of even the slightest flicker of remorse, I watch his body jerk in the throes of death, lifeforce draining from him in crimson rivers that pool at his feet.
Then I take his index finger.
With some effort, I pull my attention away from my macabre handiwork and move to the safe where I press the bloody digit against the scanner to gain access. I make quick work of filling up the duffel bag I took from their master closet with his stash of money and pills.
Taking a page from Preacher’s final act, which I’d honestly found rather amusing , I remove the Holy Bible from Johnathan Peirce’s expansive library.
After spreading the book open on the desk, I place his severed finger upon Exodus, chapter twenty-one, verse sixteen… Anyone who kidnaps a person, whether selling them or still in possession of them, shall be put to death…
R ubber gloves… a stainless-steel mortar and pestle…surgical masks.
The small, dark-haired woman eyes me suspiciously from behind the register of the Chinese Grocery store.
“ You’re the one stop shop .” I grin back at her, placing the items down on her counter.
“Twenty-five dollars,” she says, unamused. “You want a bag?”
“I do.”
A display of Zippo lighters set up behind her catches my eye.
“I’ll take that lighter, also. The one with the Ace of Spades on it… And some rolling papers.”
“Forty-five dollars,” she says, reaching back to grab the items before tossing them into the bag.
After placing a pair of Jacksons and a Lincoln down on her counter, I collect my purchases and make my way back to the seedy motel I procured for the first part of this evening’s endeavors.
N ow, masked, gloved, and seated at the rickety table in a paid-for-in-cash room with my supplies, I crush several little white pills with the mortar and pestle into a very fine powder.
Illicit Fentanyl, an opioid up to fifty times stronger than heroin and one hundred times stronger than morphine.
It doesn’t take much to kill, though I can’t leave anything to chance tonight.
I lace the marijuana and roll two generously plump joints.
The digital clock on the desk reads a quarter to eleven. Her shift will be ending soon. I place the joints into an empty cigarette box and tuck it inside my front pocket. It’s show time.
T he motel in which they conduct their business makes a Ramada look like the Waldorf.
“Can we help you with something, bro?” The juicehead and his cohort attempt to stare me down as I approach.
“Looking to ease some tension,” I reply. “Blow off some steam.”
“That so?”
“Indeed.”
“There’s a gym down the street.”
He’d know. I resist the urge to roll my eyes while lifting my shirt, baring my extensive collection of ink and scars, and feigning exasperation.
“ Do I look like LEO? If you insist I pull out my cock to prove I am just a guy looking to bury it in something tonight , one of you had better be prepared to be that something .”
Apparently, that was the last thing either of them expected to hear. Both stare at me, but the juicehead clears his throat first. “Haven’t seen you before.”
“Well, my cunt of a wife officially filed for divorce today.” I glare back at him. “A mutual party informed me where I might find something to alleviate the ache of a broken heart .”
“Oh yeah? And who might that be?” the suspicious one inquires.
“Tweaker.” I release the very recently deceased man’s name on an agitated sigh. “So how much for how long?”
“Two-fifty for one hour,” Juicehead replies.
“Well, I am a tad short…but perhaps we could come to a new agreement?” I remove a blunt from the carton in my pocket. “Two- twenty , plus this. Had planned on keeping the good times rolling tonight. Primo shit but, be that as it may… pussy is my drug of choice.”
The shorter one chuckles, shrugging at his partner. He’s clearly the one in charge. “Snatch is probably all worn out anyway. Her shift’s almost over.”
“Two-twenty, plus the joint. Thirty minutes.”
“ Forty ,” I counter, so as not to appear too eager.
“Fine.”
I hand him the cash first so he can count it and get that bit of business out of the way. Once the money is shoved in his pocket, I hand him the blunt.
“You can do whatever you want with her, just don’t hit her in the face,” he mutters with disinterest born from repetitious detachment. He doesn’t give a shit what goes on in that room.