Chapter Forty-Three—Diesel
Sliding open the window to a first-floor office, Diesel slipped into the darkened room and remained still, waiting until his eyes adjusted to detect objects in his pathway. He’d gone a little off script, but these motherfuckers deserved to be tortured.
Father Wilkins warned him to do whatever he’d come to do and leave before Diesel slipped up. It was five o’clock in the morning, so he had an hour before the motherfuckers still alive arrived for their scheduled meeting.
That wasn’t the club’s doing. Just a lucky twist of fate.
Creeping to the door, he opened it slowly. The hinges creaked like a Hollywood sound effect. He sighed at the darkened corridor, the eerie silence and sinister air heightening his awareness and anticipation.
Although he preferred not to, he flicked on his flashlight. He had to go upstairs and he didn’t want to fall and break his fucking neck.
The hallway was longer than expected with nine doors remaining, five on the opposite side and four more on the side Diesel entered.
It took him ten minutes to check eight of the rooms. He’d save the utility room for last. As expected, the first floor was deserted.
The place wasn’t worth the money they’d charged Uncle Christopher, but Diesel had to avenge their crimes in one fell swoop.
If he’d had more time, he would’ve hung in LA for a couple of months and killed them all one-by-one.
He curled his lip at the elaborate staircase, clickbait on their landing page. An elegant smokescreen that hid decrepitness and deterioration. Rotted wood made up the stairs and the banister, a safety hazard long overdue for repairs.
Topping the second floor, he heard the scurries of rodents. He shined his flashlight around until he found the culprits, three rats unbothered by his presence.
Since they didn’t disturb him, he left them the fuck alone and got to work.
This floor had two extra rooms, the linen closet and pharmaceutical.
Once again, he found no surprises. The monstrosity really was empty.
In the pharmacy, Diesel searched for rubbing alcohol but found none.
Scowling, he contemplated the shelves of drugs, opening drawers and refrigerators.
Finally, his gaze fell on something he could use.
“Jackpot, fuckheads.” He snatched the phenobarbital and grinned. “Thanks for making my life easier.”
In the hallway, he placed the flashlight under his arm, got his knife and stabbed the tip into the IV bag. The small puncture didn’t create a huge puddle but a trail as he trekked to the utility room.
With so little time, he had limited options to make the damage and deaths appear accidental.
Carbon monoxide poisoning would be a beautiful thing, but he had to rely on the gas hot water heaters on both floors.
He doubted the stove was gas but he’d check anyway.
A portable generator would be the fucking easiest. Exploding water heaters might cause damage without fatalities.
Irritated, Diesel slit the bag and allowed the remaining contents to slosh around the water heater, then he turned the knob to the highest maximum temperature and the pressure valve above safety limits.
The heater clicked on and he smiled, shining his flashlight in each corner of the room.
Near the door, his gaze fell on a propane space heater.
He turned the flashlight to the watch on his wrist and checked on the time. Twenty minutes before the meeting began.
Amending his plan yet again, he grabbed the heater and hurried out of the room and to the first floor.
A lock on the front door disengaged, comically loud in the overwhelming silence. Cursing, Diesel slid underneath the staircase.
“I hope they’re on time,” a woman said. “We have got to discuss this Caldwell situation before shit gets out of hand.”
“I agree,” a male voice purred. “I cannot believe that little asshole jumped out the fucking window.”
“I told you to overdose him, Laurent.”
“We would’ve done it eventually, but we needed the money to get out of debt. The girl’s arrival ruined our plans.”
Lights flared on and footsteps pounded Diesel’s way. His nostrils flared and fury twitched his eye.
“He was crazy enough that they would’ve believed he took his own life,” she said. “Just like those other two. We killed them, kept it mum until we were paid, and then let the families know.”
“You always jumped the gun,” Laurent complained. “If we’d kept the first one alive longer, we wouldn’t have had to kill the other one and target that Caldwell kid.”
“Crazy little fucker spat on me!”
Diesel sat the heater down, waiting for the two to come closer, so he’d snap their fucking necks. If they’d succeeded in their miserable fucking plans, it would’ve crushed Rebel’s soul and left her heartbroken. For that alone, scalping was too easy for that bitch and Laurent.
“We’re here! We’re here!” a second female voice chimed, entirely too happy while Rebel suffered and Rule could’ve died.. “The others are parking. Clark bought donuts. I’ll head to the kitchen to brew the coffee.”
“Hey, did you hear about Fogelman, Saria, and Witloff?” another motherfucker asked.
The fuckheads Diesel tortured before he killed them. Considering the new information, they’d gotten off too fucking easy too, but at least they’d suffered more than these motherfuckers would.
“No.” Coffee girl asked. “What’s up with them? They’re dipping on us?”
“They’re dead! It’s been all over the news,” he said, and dove into the story.
Gasps rose up as he recounted the media reports, some accurate, though most were embellished or downplayed.
“Maybe, we should call in the law?” the original woman suggested faintly.
“So we can go to fucking jail, too?” Laurent scoffed.
Accelerant was detectable. Gunshots were also discoverable unless a furious fire reduced these assholes to ashes, and he’d need an accelerant to speed things up. But Diesel could almost smell their fucking blood. He was shaking with his need to spill copious amounts.
“I have a variety of sweet treats,” a motherfucker, who Diesel assumed was Clark, announced. “Where’s the coffee, Heidi?”
Diesel peeked around the floating stairs, estimating twelve motherfuckers stood in the hallway. A set of keys lay on a side table, next to a stack of files. Clark, a big, stupid oaf, held three pink boxes.
If a Dweller chapter was nearby to help with cleanup, Diesel would’ve opened fire. The more time he hung around after he set everything into motion, the more risk he took. Shooting the fuck out of them was so much quicker.
In every activity, justified or not, skill and luck got the job done.
The tide turned and unlucky motherfuckers were caught or killed.
But those charmed with good fortune had the pendulum swing in their favor, and Diesel was never more aware of his lot than when they went to the kitchen to talk while their coffee brewed.
The moment they disappeared, Diesel hurried to the conference room and set up the heater.
A quick glance revealed chains dangling from the ceiling and pooling on the long table.
Anger surged into him and his pulse pounded through him.
A chime seeped into his brain and startled him back to reality.
Turning, he took in everything one last time and narrowed his eyes.
The knob had a keyhole. A key was needed on both sides to unlock it.
Fucking assholes.
Furious, he rushed to the first floor utility room. He didn’t have an IV solution, so he quickly turned up the temperature and the pressure, then returned to the room where he’d first entered.
Through the window, he saw the grays and pinks of early morning. His gaze fell on the trash can filled with paper.
He couldn’t leave anything to chance. Besides, Diesel was enjoying himself. It felt like a game of cat and mouse, and the roles were constantly changing.
Grabbing the trash can, he started in the hallway again, but voices stopped him. Murderous fuckheads were entirely too animated. He waited until they faded again, crept back into the utility room, and lit the paper inside the trashcan with his lighter.
Diesel walked back to the side table, where he’d seen the keys. Laughter and loud voices boomed from the conference room, turning his stomach. He grinned when he spotted the keys, strolled to the partially open door, and slammed it shut.
“Who’s there?” Laurent demanded.
Diesel bent the key, the scent of smoke filling his nose. Those assholes might have cell phones, so he remained quiet, ran to the room with his escape window, and exited without interruption.
Diesel had slept little since he’d arrived in Los Angeles, too busy planning logistics, corralling fuckheads, and visiting Freya, Father Wilkins, and Rule.
But now that he’d completed the job, his adrenaline crashed. He needed five or six hours of sleep before he got on the road. Once he ate his burger, fries, and milkshake he bought on the way to the motel, he showered, though he didn’t shave and wouldn’t until he returned to Hortensia.
He expected to fall asleep the moment he fell into bed. Unfortunately, his last encounter with Rebel reared its ugly head. Of course that little bitch would torment him. If he could get his hands on her, he’d shake her again.
Although he liked her idea better.
Groaning, he snatched his fucking pillow and pitched it, accidentally knocking over the lamp on the dresser.
Sitting up, he considered finding a drug hookup then dismissed that idea. He needed to get home. Besides, he was doing good. Despite his craving, he was weathering the storm, so he wouldn’t fall off that bandwagon.
No matter how much Rebel fucked with him.
“Fuck her,” he snarled, and punched the mattress. “Motherfucking brat. Immature. Childish. Spoiled. Mean-spirited. Temperamental. Underaged. Fuck. HER!”
The ringing of his cell phone broke through his angry rant. Not bothering to identify the caller, he answered. “What?”