5. Landon
LANDON
“I’m sorry,” I squat down to the level of the convulsing man.
He’s on the floor, writhing like a fish out of water, his limbs twitching in jerky, uncontrolled spasms. Sweat pours down his face, mixing with the blood leaking from the corners of his mouth.
His cheeks are already beginning to swell, grotesque and uneven, and his lips part in a strangled moan that barely sounds human.
His gums torn raw and bleeding, all of his molars ripped out like weeds—roots and all. Dark, clotted blood pools at the back of his throat, bubbling every time he tries to breathe. His tongue lolls to the side, stained crimson, trembling with every shallow inhale.
I chuckle at the sight of his shaky hands clawing at the floor, trying to drag himself away from me with the strength of a dying insect.
“Oh, come on now…” I drone, tilting my head. “Don’t be a fucking bore, mate.”
He doesn’t make it far.
I grab his leg and yank him back in one rough pull, the sound of his skin scraping against the concrete like sandpaper on raw meat. He screams, a hoarse, gurgled thing that dissolves into sobs when I crouch beside him again.
A part of me almost empathizes with the man, I remember how gut-wrenching pain shakes can be.. To hurt so deep it makes your vision blur, your stomach twist, your body betray you.
But this guy? This isn’t some scared little kid who made a mistake. This is a predator. A fucking animal who bites children like he thinks he’s starring in a horror flick.
I reach down and tap his chin lightly with two fingers, forcing his glossy eyes to meet mine.
“Don’t pass out yet,” I whisper, my tone almost gentle. “You’ve got three more teeth in the front. And I’m nothing if not thorough.”
His whimpers echo throughout the basement, bouncing off the concrete walls like a broken lullaby. I tilt my head, watching the way his lip trembles as he starts to hyperventilate—short, panicked gasps that rattle in his throat.
“Aww,” I coo, voice mock-soft, like I’m comforting a frightened pet. “Look at that. Poor thing’s shaking all over.”
I trail a blood-slicked finger just under his chin, forcing his face back up. “Breathe through it, yeah? Or don’t. Makes no difference to me.”
“It makes a difference to me,” the low timber of an Irish accent invades the tranquility of my torture chambers.
I don’t bother looking up. My knuckles graze the angry swell of the bastard’s jaw, still bubbling with blood and spit, while the scent of antiseptic and overpriced cologne seeps in—Conner Kilgore. “Do you have to make such a mess, every time?”
I hear him cough once—sharp, offended.
“Well, let’s see what the file says,” I mutter, finally standing. My boots squelch against the blood-soaked concrete. “Because I kill your prey only when I agree to hate the crime.”
Conner steps gingerly over a puddle, the bottom of his slacks stained now whether he likes it or not. “Yes, but killing and torture are two very different things, Landon. Most of this blood is not coming out of these clothes.”
I flash him a grin as I wipe my hands on the front of my shirt. “You’re a forensic scientist, mate. Blood should be your playground, and you should know how to get it out.”
“I prefer a cleaner crime scene than you.” He gestures vaguely toward the twitching man. “And I don’t usually pull teeth with pliers , either.”
I walk past him, toward the file he left on the metal table by the wall. “You said he was a child predator who liked to bite.”
“Yes,” Conner says, arching a brow.
“So I took his teeth.”
Conner snorts, as he squats down next to the largest puddle of blood, spit, and possible piss, that has started to stain the concrete. “You’re a patient fuck, I’ll give you that, but please start using the plastic we have discussed.”
I flip open the file, eyes scanning the pages. “My father used to say that I am a stubborn fuck.” That’s why I needed to be beaten more. Because I could withstand more. For longer. Unlike Kelly, who broke faster than I did every time. She couldn’t withstand the torture.
Conner doesn’t say anything for a moment, and for the first time tonight, I take a breath. The sharp, coppery stench of blood is everywhere, coating the back of my tongue like I’ve been sucking on pennies. But underneath that—there’s more. Sour sweat. Rotting nerves. Spit thick with bile.
I blow the breath out through my nose and roll my shoulders.
“Christ,” Conner mutters, covering his nose with one sleeve. “You breathe this shit in like it’s fresh air.”
“If it wasn’t for the piss, you would be too, brother.”
Conner glances down at the pool spreading beneath the man’s ruined body, nostrils flaring with disgust.
I should clarify—Conner’s not my real brother. But when you grow up lost in the same foreign country, raised in the same underground gym, beaten into shape by the same heavyweight champion with fists like cinder blocks and a temper like fire… blood’s just a technicality.
We took punches side by side before we could shave. We watched each other break ribs and bleed on mats and still showed up the next day like we owed someone our pain. So yeah. He’s my brother.
And right now, my brother’s doing his best not to vomit on his shoes while I stand over a man whose teeth I pulled out one by one.
F amily bonding at its finest.
“That,” I mutter, wiping my hands on the front of my shirt, “is the difference between you and me. I live for all the carnage. Isn’t that right, Tyler?”
The man on the floor spasms violently, his spine bowing off the concrete like a wire’s been pulled tight beneath him. Every muscle locks, his hands clawing at nothing, mouth frozen open in a soundless scream.
I watch, jaw tight, and I know. He’s seconds from dying.
Fucking punk. I squat down beside him, gripping his chin one last time, prying it open to look at the mess I didn’t finish. Three front teeth left. Intact.
“Four hours,” I mutter, voice flat. “That’s all you could take?”
His jaw sags in my hand, as his lips quiver from the shaky gasps of fleeting breath.
“Your victims took more from you for longer,” I snort, tossing his head back onto the floor. “You’re fucking pathetic.”
His body starts to rattle, legs kicking weakly, and blood bubbles from between his lips like he’s trying to drown in it. His eyes roll back, whites flickering. Chest jerks once. Then twice.
And just like that, I’ve lost him.
I slam it shut with a little more force than necessary, rising to my feet with a disgusted exhale.
“Waste of a file,” I spit, turning back toward Conner. “Could’ve at least died after I finished.”
“You know most of these criminals can’t withstand much, Lan,” Conner says quietly, pulling out his phone to log the time of death, and the method of killing. “But it doesn’t mean you’re not still a fucking psychopath.”
I grab and toss a towel over my shoulder. “Takes one to hire one.”
Conner doesn’t respond. Doesn’t have to. We’ve both made peace with what we are. The body lets out a final, gurgling rattle. I glance down. Eyes glazed. Chest still.
Conner walks into my line of sight, latex gloves snap tight around his wrists with that crisp, sterile sound that always seems louder in a room this silent.
He lays out the tools like a surgeon—bleach spray, enzyme foam, absorbent granules, sterile cloths, a portable UV scanner to double-check his work.
Everything’s arranged in neat little rows on a tarp he unrolls with military precision.
He starts with the largest puddle—Tyler’s final offering. Conner sprays the bio-foam first, watching it hiss and bubble as it eats through the blood pooled along the concrete seams. The stench rises again—iron, piss, and now meat—and he turns his face just slightly, jaw clenching.
“Whole room reeks like a slaughterhouse,” he mutters, reaching for a heavy-duty cloth.
He wipes in tight, circular motions, using pressure and patience instead of speed. Unlike me, he doesn’t rush. Every stroke is methodical, turning deep red to murky pink, to dull grey, until only the memory of blood remains.
He sprinkles the granules over a smear near the filing cabinet and kneels down to scrub it out with a small, stiff brush. “Arterial spray on vertical surfaces…” he mutters like he’s back in a lecture hall. “Always the worst.”
“Still talking to yourself while you work?” I ask, watching him from the edge of the table.
“Better than talking to corpses like you do,” he mutters, brushing up a dark crust that had started to congeal along the baseboards. “Besides, if I leave one trace, one stray drop of blood behind, this whole place becomes a crime scene. You’d be surprised how much DNA stays in porous concrete.”
I shrug. “Not my concern.”
“Exactly,” Conner says, rising to his feet and swapping out cloths. “And that’s why I’m the one in gloves while you’re over there smelling like a butcher’s apron.”
He kneels beside the body, now still and slack-jawed, and carefully slips a plastic sheet beneath it. The motion is practiced, clinical—he doesn’t even flinch when blood drips onto his boot.
“And that ,” he mutters, checking his UV wand for missed streaks, “is why we don’t torture people next to air vents.”
I snort, my eyes landing on the manila folder next to his disregarded leather jacket. My eyes light up, and fingers twitch with the need as I imagine the soon to be target. “This looks promising, Con.”
I swipe the heavy folder off the table and thumb through the target’s crimes.
A serial domestic violence offender. Fists for breakfast, bruises for dessert. He jumps states like flies on a pile of shit, always one step ahead of a system too soft and too slow to keep up. My favorite type of guy—because they always think they’re the hunter.
And because he reminds me of Marcus .
Fucking Marcus. The roadman bastard who killed my sister and still breathes like the world owes him something. I hate him more than any man alive besides my father, and lucky me—I’m still in debt to him.
My stomach clenches at the thought.