Chapter 24 #2
Fuck. Now I have to get her to talk first.
I take off my disguise, informing my new makeup artist that he needs to be on call tomorrow. I can’t spend a whole day like this, and I sure as hell can’t go after Cynthia like this.
I drive to the address 404 gave me. It’s an apartment building, a few streets away from where I live.
There’s a flower shop across the street, so I go inside and get a bouquet.
Then go back to the car to grab a cap I tossed onto the backseat a few days ago, along with a clipboard I’ve had lying around from when I worked at the bar.
It’s got some old stock tables printed on the papers, but I’m not worried.
Nobody checks the delivery guy’s paperwork.
They just sign—and no woman would ever refuse flowers.
I’ll just pretend to be the one delivering them.
I head straight up to her apartment, hoping to catch a glimpse, but I ring the doorbell. Apparently, no one is home.
Time to switch tactics, so I wait in the car for her to return.
She only does that a couple of hours later.
And she’s not alone. She’s with a man—well built, six-foot-three, dark hair, and chocolate skin.
Come to think of it, I think I’ve seen him around.
I check the file on my phone again and recognize him from one of the OnlyFans pictures.
He’s the one she’s been creating some of her content with.
That’s what they call them, right, content creators?
The thought almost makes me laugh, but realizing the flower thing won’t work just pisses me off.
I wait in my car until it’s almost dark outside, losing my patience, thinking of ways to get in. But it’s too risky to take her on in her apartment. It could get too noisy, especially since she’s not alone.
My luck suddenly turns, and she leaves with the man, like they’re in a hurry. They get into a red car that looks like hers, but he’s driving, which tells me I won’t be getting rid of him anytime soon.
Fuck my life.
I follow them right outside of town, where they stop in front of a house that looks abandoned. The guy checks the area so that everything is safe, then shows her inside.
There are a few other houses down the street, but most of them look abandoned, too, and the rest have bars at the windows to keep people out. This neighborhood’s crawling with junkies and hookers, so no wonder they’ve picked a place where they wouldn’t stand out.
This is my best chance to move. No time to screw around.
I peek through the window. They’re going for the bedroom, and judging by the lights he’s setting, I’m guessing they’re about to film.
I don’t want to witness this, but it looks like I don’t have a choice.
I slip inside the house through the back door, which, even if it’s locked, doesn’t stand a chance against me. The wood’s so rotten I could kick it down, but that would make too much noise. So, I just pick the lock instead, in less than twenty seconds.
Keeping my gun tightly in hand, I advance down the hallway and into the living room.
The TV’s on. Strangely enough, it’s on a kids' channel, but I ignore it and focus on their location.
It’s only then that I hear it. “Mommy?” The soft voice scares the living shit out of me.
I almost scream. I don’t even know how I find the strength to keep my calm, but as soon as I identify where the voice is coming from, I realize it’s a little boy.
He can’t be older than six, but I checked Cynthia’s file, and she doesn’t have kids.
Besides, his light red hair and the small freckles spread across his face tell me he can’t be related to her.
“Oh… you’re not my mommy,” he says, with deep disappointment in his voice, while I gesture to him to stay quiet.
“Come here,” I whisper, motioning him closer so I stay out of sight in case any of them walk in. Though I doubt that’ll happen, because I can already hear moans spilling from the bedroom, the door creaked open, even if there’s a damn kid in the house.
I’ve never considered myself to have a friendly face, but it sure beats that tramp, Cynthia. And her boyfriend. The kid walks over to me like I’m his last hope in this world.
That breaks my fucking heart. Kids are supposed to be fearful, scared of strangers, not run to them with open arms.
And yet he looks at me like I’m his fucking guardian angel.
“What’s your name?” I ask as quietly as I can, taking in how thin the little boy is.
“Samuel James Mitchell,” he answers—full name and all, like he’s in prep school roll call.
“Okay, Sam. I can call you Sam, right?”
He nods.
“Are these your parents?” I ask, already suspecting the answer. He confused me with his mother, which means she probably has black hair, while Cynthia's is dyed red.
He shakes his head no, then keeps staring at the door like he’s afraid of who might walk through it.
More moans break through the silence, and a repeated slapping sound that makes me sick becomes the background music.
Fucking monsters. And I’m afraid that’s not even half of it.
As if to confirm my suspicions, Sam's face goes pale, his little hands shaking at the sound. Then a question hits me. One that I don’t want to ask but feel morally obligated to.
I crouch, taking his hand between my palms, and making sure we lock eyes. “Did anyone hurt you?”
Tears line up on his eyelids. I don’t need an answer to know what happened. But he tries to give me one either way. “The man—” He doesn’t finish, and I don’t press. I’ve read the file. I know exactly what those bastards did. And I’m going to make sure they pay for it.
“Can I take a picture of you?” I ask. And as soon as he nods, I snap a photo and send it to 404, asking him to help ID this kid. “Do you know somewhere to hide? A room? Somewhere you’ll feel safe for a few minutes?
He nods again. “There’s another bedroom. I can hide in the closet,” he says, looking even more scared than earlier.
“Go straight there. I’ll come get you in a little while and help you find your parents. Deal?”
A flicker of hope lights up in his eyes. “Deal,” he says, then disappears down the hallway, trusting me to keep my promise.
Which I plan to, right after I deal with these creeps. My fucking head is spinning, anger bubbling beneath the skin, fueling a rage that’s veering into straight madness.
I screw a silencer onto my gun. I bought it just in case, when I first went to work for Ares. Never thought I’d really need it, though.
I don’t wait for them to finish. I go outside and cut the optic line.
Then I head back to their bedroom, where I just push the door open, aim for the man’s head, and fire.
It’s that simple. He hits the floor in seconds, his dick still in Cynthia’s mouth, giving me just enough time to warn her about screaming. “Keep your mouth shut, or you’re next.”
I expect her to comply, especially after seeing what I’m capable of. Instead, she bolts straight at me, catches me off guard, and slams me into a wooden dresser as she tries to disarm me.
Suddenly, it clicks. That’s why her name is on that list. She’s got it in her to fight.
She doesn’t hesitate, throws herself on top of me, slamming my hand on the floor, and knocks the weapon loose.
A surge of panic kicks in. I’m fully prepared to do this, but—except for that night stealing the van—I never actually tested it in a life-or-death scenario. Sure, I’ve tossed plenty of men out of the club, kicked a few asses too, but that was more bar brawl than battlefield.
She tries to straddle me, hands around my throat, ready to choke me. And it’s exactly the opening I need to take her out. I land a punch straight to the face, lift my ass off the floor, and snap my legs around her neck before she sees it coming.
I punch her again, bringing my hands around her throat, before she even gets to blink. The back of my thumbs drive into her carotids, then I cross my feet as strongly as I can, and extend, forcing the pressure in deeper.
She thrashes at first, but her resistance fades quickly as I cut off her oxygen and lull her into unconsciousness.
Yeah, I’m that good.
Okay, truth is, I surprised myself. Just makes me that more committed to see this whole thing through.
Before she comes to, I cuff her to a chair using her own toys—cuffs and a prop rope they keep around. Then I drag her sorry ass boyfriend's body behind a curtain, so I won’t risk Sam stumbling upon that scene.
I also take a mop from the bathroom, and wipe up just enough blood to keep it from screaming murder scene the moment someone walks in.
I don’t go after Sam, though. I need to deal with Cynthia first, and judging by what she’s done, she’s not getting a happy ending.
She’s starting to come to, right as I’m finishing up, but that doesn’t stop me from throwing a bucket of water on her face—just to make sure she’s conscious enough to hear me out.
“Where are the instructions?” I snap, cutting straight to the chase.
Yet, she chooses to play dumb. “What? What instructions?”
“Don’t fucking play with me.” I pull out my gun, shoving it in her face. “The instructions for the game. For Kharon. Fucking now!” I snarl, cocking it for emphasis.
“The game?” she repeats, like she has no clue what I’m talking about. And I punch her straight in the face to knock some sense into her.
“Now!” I roar, losing my patience. I don’t have the nerves for this shit.
Just as I’m about to hit her again, she tries to negotiate. “Would you let me live if I tell you?” She asks, like this is up for debate.
Still, that gives me an idea. “Yeah, I’ll let you live,” I say, as I check the two cameras recording and pulling their memory cards, just in case they were still rolling. I know they can’t go live because I killed the internet, but I still need to wipe any possible traces I was here.
“I need to know I can trust you.” She presses, and I reinforce my promise.
“I won’t kill you. You’ve got my word.”
She exhales, like she’s still debating whether to give me that info or not, but she also knows I’ll put a bullet in her skull if she doesn’t. “The note is in my purple coat. I left it at my apartment.”
I glare at her, pissed off that life never cuts me a break. Of course, it’s back at her apartment, and she doesn’t have it here with her—where I fucking need it. Can’t ever be that easy, could it?
I have to check if she’s telling the truth, but first, I open the laptop on the small table next to the cameras.
I need to know how I’ll play this; the hundreds, maybe even thousands, of video files give me the perfect leverage.
I open a few, just to make sure they’re what I need to bury her.
The first few are her with different partners, including the guy I just killed. He’s in most of the videos.
I scroll past them. No way I’m watching those two fuck.
My stomach’s already turning, dreading I’ll find exactly what I’m looking for. And the second Sam’s face shows up on the screen, I know I have all the evidence I need to ruin her.
My breath catches in my throat, the nausea riding so fast I nearly throw up. I can’t watch this. I’m afraid to, because if I do, I’ll kill her on the spot, just like I did that sorry ass boyfriend of hers. And I need her alive for now, to make sure she’s telling the truth about the note.
She starts mumbling something about me going through the videos, so I grab one of her prop gags and put it to real use, shutting her up so I won’t have to hear it.
I scrub a little further with the footage, hoping I don’t see something else that’ll scar me for life.
I’m just scanning for her in the frames, and the second I get a clear shot of her, I stop.
She’s wearing a leather mask, but the tattoo on her shoulder is visible, even under the layer of foundation she tried to hide it with.
I’m sure the cops will have enough evidence to lock her up. Maybe someone with a stronger stomach than mine could make it through the rest of the videos because I really don’t need another thing plaguing my mind.