Lord of Justice (The Bratva Lords #5)

Prologue

In which dark nights are for dark deeds.

New York City is a complicated place to conduct my kind of business.

It is always alive.

Always awake and moving, a rapacious beast. I've had to learn different methods in this crowded, noisy kingdom to create the outcome I desire. Often, the kind of men I'm tracking are vicious, prolifically lethal, but profoundly stupid. Those are the easy ones.

Eric Norris is different. He's a rapist, a man who trades in human souls. His people sell the worst kind of drugs mixed with everything from horse tranquilizers to cement dust, substances that often guarantee a violent and painful death for the unsuspecting user.

So, deciding how I wanted to end him took some time.

But after three weeks of observation and surveillance, I know exactly where to find him, and where he's at his most vulnerable.

He likes to get drunk and high in his office at his nightclub, Dark Matter.

His office overlooks the dance floor, where he enjoys picking out girls, vulnerable-looking ones for his men to take.

They end up in one of his concrete lockers, eventually sold into the Red Trade.

I've watched the New York City D.A. go against him three times now, and every time Norris has walked free, laughing.

Tonight is going to end that. Of course, he has multiple guards scattered all over the nightclub, but there's a service elevator that they must assume nobody would ever think to use for anything other than meat and booze deliveries.

It's around 3 AM when I take the lift up and the club's noise and madness is beginning to subside as partygoers head home.

It's the perfect moment. Norris will be drunk, or vibrating after going through a mountain of cocaine.

Whatever girl he's had that night will be thrown out, usually crying, and clutching her clothes.

He needs to be made an example, he needs to be left a bloody, horrific sight, forcing others to accept that even in their own fortress, they are never safe.

The service elevator runs smoothly to the third floor, and I slip out, taking the fire escape up to the fourth where Norris's office dominates the floor.

There are two guards, one posted by the emergency exit in the back, the other by the stairs and elevator leading down to the dance floor.

The guard standing by the emergency exit is young, bored.

He occasionally slips his phone out of his jacket to text someone or play an online poker game.

Sorry, kid. This is not going to be your lucky night.

Stepping up behind him, I turn his head to the right with a vicious crack, instantly breaking his neck. His sightless eyes stare at me as I drag him into a nearby service room, pushing aside the mops and buckets to lay him flat and locking the door behind me.

There's a skylight open in the hall, the noise of traffic and the ever-present smell of car exhaust and cigarette smoke drift through it, along with six different kinds of music competing to be heard over the others, and laughter from people walking down the street.

I take a deep breath. These are the nights when I love New York, when the city is at its loudest. Chaotic, and brutal.

I'm just part of its dark, bloody corners.

The hallway is wide, carpeted, with paintings lit along the walls. Norris thinks they make him look like a man of the arts. Unfortunately, the foolish bastard can't tell a forgery to save his life, or he’s hired the stupidest collector on the planet.

Taking a canister from my backpack, I attach it to a length of hose, slipping it under the door and pressing the nozzle.

The gas is invisible, odorless, and it can knock out a herd of bulls within seconds.

Pulling it out just in time, I step into an alcove, shoulder to shoulder with a hideous looking piece of pottery.

The front guard makes his way past the office door and back, he doesn't seem to notice the other guard is no longer there. Sloppy.

I wait two more minutes for the gas to disperse and then pull my balaclava up over my nose.

Norris is there, snoring loudly on his couch.

Based on how his eyeballs are jittering under his closed eyelids, it appears that he double tapped both the coke and the booze tonight.

Then maybe, a cocktail chemical chaser to cancel it all out so he could sleep.

Peeling off my black T-shirt, I stretch, hearing my muscles creak and my torrent of body ink glows from the dim light of his security monitors.

My tattoos will be covered in blood soon.

I watch him for a moment, he looks fairly harmless, initially.

He's in his early forties with a good head of hair and an easy smile for his potential victims. But now, sprawled carelessly, his dress shirt stained, a line of drool coming from his mouth, and blood under his nails, he looks exactly like what he is. A pig, ready for slaughter.

My KA-BAR knife is my most useful instrument, and I admire the sheen of the low light along its steel edge.

The blade is razor sharp, and I have to keep it in a specialized sheath, but it does work so beautifully.

Tapping his cheek with the blade roughly, I murmur, "Wakey, wakey. Judgment day is here."

His eyes open and his mouth as well, ready to scream before I yank on his tongue, pulling it out and slicing it off easily.

Norris is gargling on his own blood, with more pouring out the corners of his mouth.

He's staring at me, trying to place who I am but there's nothing to see but my eyes, pitch black like the entry to Hell, and the gates are opening to receive him.

"All those young women you've taken." I tap his other cheek with the blade, cutting a long slice into his lips and then another over his eyelid and through his left eye.

The most pain sensitive areas of the face, where the nerve endings are alight and carrying signals of agony speeding through his body.

"All those drugs. You've been a busy man. "

He shakes his head frantically, coughing up more blood, and I haul him up by his hair, his soft hands slapping against my arm.

Three more cuts along his abdomen, designed for maximum suffering, cutting through his suit jacket as easily as if it was paper.

Another on his thigh, slicing his shoes off and adding six slashes on the soles of his feet and in seconds, he's a writhing, sobbing mess, his eyes bulging.

"Don't be such a little bitch," I admonish. "This is nothing compared to what you've done to all those innocents, now is it?" I lean closer, I can see myself reflected in his eyes. "But I assure you, it will get much worse." My only regret is that I can't take longer with him.

I’d love to have days, maybe weeks to deliver agony.

This is, sadly, the most convenient time and place, so I spend a satisfying ten minutes making sure that his end is as grisly and unspeakable as possible.

I want his guards to vomit when they open the door in the morning and find what's left of him.

His last dying gurgles fade to a whimper, and then silence. I run my KA-BAR across his throat. Never leave anything to chance. The blood spills off the sofa and onto the rug, leaving a long, thin trail of gore as I wipe my blade on his jacket.

I catch my reflection in the glass overlooking the dance floor as I stand. His blood sprayed across my chest. I’m soaked in it, up to the elbow. There's Aboriginal tribes that smear the blood of their enemies across their bodies to wear the souls of the dead. I like the idea of it.

Gathering all my gear, I head out the door and past the staring corpse of the man who failed to protect his boss.

I emerge back into the alley; the night is at its darkest moment.

Tilting my head back, I breathe in through the balaclava.

The coppery rank of Norris's death is sweet.

I should put my shirt on and disappear back into the night, but for one minute I let myself enjoy the bloodlust surging through my veins, setting my skin on fire.

I hear it then. A tiny sound, just the smallest inhale of breath from someone trying to choke back a scream. I spin to my right and she's there, brown hair flowing to her waist, a luscious body and over the hand she has slapped on her mouth, amber eyes, enormous, and terrified.

I know this woman.

She's got her hand on an open car door. The car is already running, and she slides in, slamming the door and hitting the back of the seat, screaming at someone to drive.

The car peels off, out into the street and fishtailing a bit, knocking over a garbage can. I don't bother to chase her. A grin stretches over my teeth, my skin tight and sticky with blood.

After all, not only do I know who she is, I know where to find her.