62. Eli
SIXTY-TWO
ELI
Every Wednesday, Bill Hudson follows the same routine.
He finishes his last weights set at eight-fifty, stretches for ten minutes by the free weights, then hits the locker room while the staff does their closing sweep.
He showers. He takes his time. He’s always the last one out, because men like Hudson believe the world will wait for them, and so far, the world has.
Tonight, the world stops waiting.
We’re parked in the lot behind the building.
A nondescript sedan, windows tinted, engine off.
Milo’s in the backseat with his laptop, running the final check on the gym’s security feed.
He hacked it three days ago. Tonight he’s looping the locker room camera to show an empty room from 9:00 onward.
Tonight, security will see him leave early.
But when they review the footage tomorrow, they’ll see Hudson walk in.
They won’t see him walk out. They’ll find him in the morning, and by then the story will already be written, and the confession to all his crimes will be in his locker.
His survivors will finally find peace knowing their violator is gone.
Holden is in the back beside Milo, his skull mask in his lap while he stares at the building, readying himself for what’s to come. Micah is beside me in the driver’s seat. He’s staring through the windshield, jaw set, running his own internal checklist. I can practically hear it ticking.
“Feed’s looped,” Milo says from the back. “Locker room’s dark. Staff are doing their final walk-through of the main floor. Hudson’s still on the bench press.”
“How many staff?” Holden asks.
“Two. Kid at the front desk and the manager doing the sweep.”
“We clear to go in?”
“Almost.” Milo’s voice is steady. Focused. The manic energy he carries like a second skin goes quiet on kill nights, replaced by something precise and cold. It’s a version of Milo that most people don’t know exists. “We’ve got three minutes before we need to get into position.”
I check my watch. 8:47.
“Okay. Let’s run through it one last time,” I say.
Holden nods. “Entry through the service corridor. Milo disables the emergency exit alarm—you’ve got the bypass?”
“Installed it yesterday.” Milo holds up a small device. “You’ve got a thirty-second window.”
“Eli and I go into the locker room. Micah holds the corridor. Milo stays on the feed.” Holden’s voice is flat, mechanical. “Timeline?”
“Once the staff leave we’ve got as long as we need,” I say.
“Noose is pre-tied and ready to go. I’ve set the anchor on the shower pipe above the cubicle we want—it’ll hold his weight, Knox confirmed the specs.
Milo planted the journal in his home office last week.
The suicide note is ready to put with his belongings.
His browser history shows searches for methods going back six weeks. ”
“The man was meticulous about his digital footprint,” Milo adds. “I had to work around three layers of encryption to plant the history. Even had to ask Fenrir for some help. That dude is fucking nuts. But, honestly, it was the most fun I’ve had on a computer since I catfished that senator.”
“Focus,” Holden says.
“Right. I’m focused. Very focused. Laser focused.”
I look at my hands. They’re steady. Thank God.
Before yesterday, they were shaking. Sage was right. Resisting her was ripping me apart. When I took her in the voyeur room, I was a fucking mess and she put me back together by letting me come apart on top of her. She met my darkness and didn’t run. She took every bit of it.
“Masks on,” I say, and all three of us pull down our skulls and pull up our hoods.
We move in formation, single file, one after another to the service entrance.
The door is supposed to be alarmed but isn’t, thanks to Milo’s bypass.
He triggers the device and the LED goes green.
Thirty seconds. Holden pulls the door and we’re in—a narrow corridor, fluorescent-lit, smelling like industrial cleaner.
The gym’s main floor is through the double doors to our left. The locker room is straight ahead.
Micah takes his position at the corridor junction, back to the wall, bag at his feet, eyes on both directions. He gives me a nod. Calm. Ready.
Holden and I move down the corridor. Our shoes are soft-soled, no sound on the tile.
We push through the locker room door, the shower running on the other side.
Hudson’s washing the workout off his skin, thinking about whatever men like him think about.
His portfolio. His weekend plans. The intern he’s been grooming since September.
The one who reminds him of the last one, who reminded him of the one before that.
The assembly line of young women he’s abused and discarded like raw material.
Once inside, we’re met by rows of metal lockers, wooden benches, a tiled floor that slopes toward the drain.
The shower area is at the back, separated by a half-wall.
Steam curls over the top. Hudson’s clothes are folded neatly on a bench—dress shirt, slacks, leather shoes arranged by a man who controls every detail of his environment.
Or he did, until now.
Holden nods to me, and we move silently toward the showers. The steam is thick, the water pounding against tile, masking any faint sounds we might make. Hudson’s back is to us, head bowed under the spray, soap suds sliding down his shoulders. He’s humming—some tuneless thing, oblivious.
I pull the drug-soaked rag from the sealed bag in my pocket. It’s a special blend from Loki, something that’s fast acting but won’t leave a trace in the bloodstream.
Holden positions himself just behind, ready to catch Hudson if needed. We move as one.
I clamp the rag over Hudson’s mouth and nose from behind, my other arm locking around his chest to pin his arms. He jerks, eyes flying wide, but the chemical is already doing its work.
He thrashes once, twice, feet slipping on the wet tile, but Holden’s there, grabbing his legs to keep him from making noise.
Hudson’s muffled shouts fade to gurgles, his body going limp in under twenty seconds.
We shut off the water and drag him to the corner of the shower recess so he’s out of sight from the doorway.
He’s heavier than he looks—dead weight always is—but we get him fully hidden before the manager does his final check. The moment Milo gives us the all clear, we set the scene, ready the noose. And wait.
By the time Hudson stirs, we’ve got him balanced on a small maintenance stool—precarious, just tall enough that the tips of his toes can keep him upright.
His hands immediately fly to the noose around his neck and he makes a sound—thin, desperate, ragged.
Panic lands behind his eyes as he claws at the rope, but it’s already cinched.
His lips are darkening. He tries to scream but it comes out a choked, bubbling rasp.
Holden and I watch him. This part always takes longer than you think it will. It’s a pleasure to watch them die.
“Please—” he gasps, but the word rips itself apart in the making, sputtering out as a guttural click. “Help me.”
“Bill Hudson, you’re a piece of shit,” I say softly.
His hands flail for purchase, but he can’t get his fingers under the rope.
He’s crying now, tears streaming down his cheeks, snot bubbling from his nose.
The humiliation is potent. Naked, dripping wet, no dignity left.
The masks hide our faces, but he doesn’t need to see us to know what this is.
The skulls tell him exactly what this is.
His reckoning.
“What—what the fuck is this?” His voice is strained, high, panicked, already cracking as he tries to maintain his balance. “Who are you? What do you want? Money? I can pay—”
I stay crouched, Holden standing behind me. And we watch as he claws at the rope, twisting and gasping.
“You know who we are,” I say finally. “And you know why we’re here.”
Hudson’s face pales, eyes darting between us. “No—no, this is a mistake. I didn’t do anything. Whatever you think—”
I lean forward, elbows on my knees. “Sarah Jenkins. Twenty-two. You cornered her in your office after hours, told her she’d never get a reference if she didn’t ‘play nice.’ You raped her and when she reported it, you buried the complaint with a non-disclosure and a payout she couldn’t refuse.”
Hudson’s mouth opens and closes, no sound coming out.
“Rebecca Torres,” Holden says, his tone ice-cold.
“Nineteen. A summer program clerk. You got her drunk at a company event, and took her back to a hotel room. She woke up with bruises, bloody thighs, and no memory. She filed a police report, then withdrew after your lawyers threatened to sue for defamation.”
Tears are streaming down Hudson’s face now, snot pouring from his nose, slobber from his mouth. He shifts on the stool, and a wet sound echoes—piss hitting the tile floor beneath him, pooling around the stool legs.
“Pathetic,” Holden mutters, shaking his head.
“Look at you, pissing yourself like a child. You had no problem hurting those women—cornering them, breaking them down—but now that it’s your turn, you’re a sniveling mess.
The audacity of you assholes never fails to amaze me.
You destroy lives without a second thought, but when the reckoning comes, you cry and beg like it’s unfair. ”
“Do you know the names of the others, Bill? Can you remember them?”
“What do I care,” he barks, wobbling. “They’re cunts. They’re all just cunts.”
“Uh-uh, Bill. We don’t like boys who are rude. What were their names?”
“I can’t remember.”
I look over at Holden, who begins to recite them, one after another. The length is damning, his deeds disgusting.
“What do you want?” Hudson sobs. “Tell me!”
“This is a reckoning, Bill. When the Hangmen come for you, you’re fucking done. No more interns. No more threats. No more walking away clean while they carry the scars.”
“Please,” Hudson sobs, body shaking so hard the stool teeters. “I have money. A family. I’ll stop—I swear, I’ll—”
“You had your chance,” I say, standing up. “You chose this.”
Holden moves too, and we step back in unison. Hudson’s eyes widen in terror, realizing what’s coming. He thrashes, but the binds hold, the stool wobbling precariously.
“No—no, wait—”
I kick the stool out from under him.
It clatters across the floor, and Hudson drops, the noose snapping tight.
His legs kick wildly, body jerking as the rope bites into his neck.
Gurgles turn to gasps, face turning purple, eyes bulging in panic.
We watch, silent, as he struggles—feet scraping air, piss and now shit dripping down his legs in his final humiliation.
It’s not quick, but it’s efficient. His movements slow, weaken, until finally, he goes still, swaying gently from the pipe.
The silence after is always the best part.
I exhale, rolling my shoulders like I’m shedding a weight. “Note.”
Holden pulls the forged suicide confession from his pocket—Hudson’s handwriting, Milo’s masterpiece—and tucks it into Bill’s neatly folded clothes. It confesses everything, the assaults, the cover-ups, the guilt that’s “eaten him alive.” His browser history will back it all up.
No loose ends.
We leave through the service door, regrouping with Micah in the corridor. Milo confirms the feeds are clean—no trace of us.
We walk to the car in silence, crossing the lot like shadows, masks still on, bodies humming with the come-down. The second the car doors shut, Milo gives a little whoop—quiet, but there, a pop of static in the tension.
“Textbook,” he says, voice loose now, giddy with relief. “Banner-fucking-day for the team, boys.”
We all pull off our masks. Micah doesn’t speak right away. He’s breathing deep and slow, like he’s winding himself down from a sprint. I watch him in my periphery, waiting for the flicker of a smile. It doesn’t come, but he gives me a nod. Tonight went as it should. We needed a win.
Holden runs his hands over his face, then lets them drop. “God, I hate it when they shit themselves. It stinks. These motherfuckers were happy to rape multiple women and the moment a little justice comes their way, the bowels open.”
“Next time, we put a tarp down first,” he adds. “That’s a note for the file.”
“Sphincter release is standard in hanging deaths,” Milo says, tucking the laptop away. “Adds authenticity to the staging, if anything. You’re welcome.”
“I got shit splatter on my shoe, Milo.”
“Occupational hazard, detective.”
With a shake of his head, Holden starts the engine and pulls out of the lot. He drives the speed limit exactly, headlights on, two hands on the wheel. We merge onto the main road and become just another car on a Wednesday night, heading nowhere in particular.
“Clean job,” Micah says finally. His hood is still up, face half-shadowed in the passing streetlights. “No complications. No witnesses. The staging will hold. We should let Dean know we won’t be bringing him anything tonight.”
“I’ll do that now,” I say, shooting off an innocuous message to Dean. He immediately sends a thumbs up. “Milo, the feeds are back up?”
“Restored the second you exited the locker room. Camera shows Hudson entering at nine-oh-two and an empty room after that. Morning crew finds the body, finds the note, family finds the browser history. Open and shut. Tragic, but not surprising—guy had been struggling for months, according to his very real and very sad secret journal.” He mimes a chef’s kiss. “My finest work.”
I run through the checklist in my head.
“We did good,” I say.
The car goes quiet. The exhale after taking a life. Your body coming down from the thing it was built to do, recalibrating to the version of you that exists in daylight.
I pull out my phone and type one word to Knox.
Me:
Done.
The reply doesn’t come from him. It comes from Sage. A single heart in the group chat.
I stare at it longer than I should. A black heart on a dark screen.
Milo leans forward between the seats. “So. What’s the move? It’s barely ten. We dropping everyone home, or . . .?”
Nobody answers right away. Holden drives. Micah stares out the window. I look at the heart on my phone.
“I don’t want to go home,” Micah says quietly.
Milo looks at him. Then at me. Then he and Holden lock eyes.
“Me neither,” Milo says.
“Swap the car then head to Sage’s?” Holden suggests.
“Knox is already there,” Micah says. “He’ll want to hear about the op.”
“I’m gonna text, kitten,” Milo says. “Tell her we’re incoming. All of us.” He already has his phone out. His thumbs move fast, and a second later her reply comes through.
“She says she’s waiting.”
Micah takes the next left.