19. Killing Me Softly
Killing Me Softly
Zephyr
I . Am. Going. To. Kill. Them.
My molars grind on each other while my ears beg for Zac and Zeke to shut the fuck up. They’ve been debating the best way to kill a man for the last half hour.
It took Zade less than that to decode the license plate. It was another half hour later that he pinged it to a location, playing pinball with the cameras around town until the vehicle came into view, parked outside of an abandoned industrial warehouse.
Deaton arrived at the house about twenty minutes after that while Zac was “arming up” in a sub-basement room that he barred me and Zeke from entering because we “weren’t ready.”
To say I wanted to jab a knife into his jugular is an understatement. And that was before I climbed into the car with the two serial killers and protégé, settling into the backseat while Deaton plugged the location into the GPS.
Zeke and his dad didn’t shut up the entire fucking drive.
Keyboard clicking comes over the speaker. Deaton had called Zade, letting him know we were at the location. My twin was looking over the cameras to inform us of the best place to park that keeps us out of view.
And the Siamese twins were still fucking yapping.
Okay, one very clearly doesn’t look like the other with his bronze skin, but it’s obvious which parent’s personality he adopted.
If I could kill them both and make it look like an accident.
. . No, Zephyr, don’t finish that thought.
There are enough serial killers in this family.
Being a sociopath isn’t synonymous with being a murderer.
But, boy, do I want to paint the fucking town red, starting with these two.
My fingers press into my temples, urging the oncoming headache to fade away.
“Booyah!” Zac crows, pumping his fist like a prepubescent punkster at a concert.
Oh, God, swallow me up now, I’m related to an idiot.
Zeke leans across the seats, placing a hand on his dad’s shoulder and giving it an excited squeeze, lips split wide and brown eyes glistening with glee.
Natch, I’m related to two idiots. My twin may be certifiable, but at least he’s a damn computer genius. Zac and Zeke are without excuse.
“The text he just sent says to park about five feet past the sign that says “Elmers,” there’s a blind spot.
He’s searching for access to any electronics inside the building that’s left over from the previous owners,” Deaton says in a gruff voice.
The bored expression on his reflection leads me to believe he’d rather be anywhere else.
“Let’s party,” Zac says with relish, rubbing his palms together like a damn cartoon villain. My head thumps back into the car cushions. It’s going to be a long fucking night.
Several minutes—hours?—later, and maybe I want to kill my uncle a little less. With a few flicks of his wrists and nimble fingers, the back door of the warehouse clicks open. He shoots a victorious grin over his shoulder, a backpack strapped to his back.
He doesn’t wait for the okay from Zade, who’s kept open a line of text messages, giving us directions and guidance. Zac twists the doorknob and pushes the door open. Deaton hisses but doesn’t bother offering an argument, more likely fearful of discovery.
My twin hacked the dormant cameras. Apparently, the new owner pays the electricity bill but never took down the cameras he no doubt thought were no longer in working order. Zade proved him wrong.
So, now we know the stalker works alone and has a victim strapped to what appears to be an examination table. He’s distracted, not deaf. As a unit, we creep stealthily through the open door, mindful of debris littering the floor.
Zeke’s heaving breathing and hulking form lurks behind me, and I don’t like it. But I keep my eyes trained on my feet, following in Zac’s wake until we reach a locked metal door after taking several meandering turns in the abandoned warehouse.
A chirp shatters the quiet, and we all turn toward Deaton, bringing up the rear of the group.
He scowls, pulling his phone out to read Zade’s latest message.
Blankness descends over his features, and for the first time, I’m seeing Deaton the Heartbreaker killer, not Uncle Zac’s mellow cousin slash brother in name if not blood.
His eyes lock on Zac.
“He’s about to start skinning the girl,” he says in an emotionless tone. Chills race down my spine, pebbling the skin with goosebumps. I am not a killer.
Yet , a dark voice in the back of my mind whispers. I ignore it, focusing on Deaton’s next words.
“We have two options. Wait till he’s done, distracted and covered in blood. Tie him up for the authorities or…” He trails off.
“Or what?” I hiss, forgetting the need to be quiet. Brown and blue eyes laser on me, but I ignore them fuckers too, silently beseeching Deaton to spill the fucking beans.
“Or we interrupt, take him down by surprise and deal with an eyewitness than can identify us all,” he says, and by his stiff posture and tone, I can tell he’s mentally opting for option one.
Fuck that. Leaving that girl to die is akin to leaving Riah in trouble.
Yes, I couldn’t give a rat’s ass about my adopted sister, but she’s still family and Zade obviously cares for her.
In my mind, I superimpose her face over this nameless, faceless girl.
We are not leaving her at the mercy of this sick fuck.
My jaw clenches, and my shoulders settle back, belying my intentions before I speak them.
“I’m going in. Don’t try and stop me because I will consider you a fucking threat.
We came to eliminate this guy, and we’re going to do just that.
It doesn’t include sitting back and jerking our dicks while he murders a girl that probably looks like a replica of my sister,” I snap, seething and barely leashing my temper.
“Are you in, or you fucking pussies are out?” I grit behind clenched teeth.
“That’s no way to speak to your uncle,” Zac snaps without any heat. The excitement layering his words says plenty. He’s so fucking in.
“Let’s go torture ourselves an amateur,” he says, and the broken moonlight streaming in illuminates the damn grin on his face with perfect clarity. Even nature bows beneath his manipulative charm.
Lucky fucker.
He turns his attention on the lock to work his magic again. Collectively, we all hold our breath like the unknown on the other side of the door has supersonic hearing. He doesn’t. He’s just a man, and my dad and uncle have killed plenty of those.
Click.
Tension surges among the group as we still, waiting and listening for movement to indicate that the sound was heard. Several moments lapse in silence before we release a breath.
Not long ago, I wanted to kill them all but Deaton, and now we’re all acting as one. It’s eerie and unsettling but also kind of nice. I don’t form attachments, and I never took part in team sports in school. For the first time, I wonder if I’ve missed out.
Is this what it’s like to be on a team, to work towards a common goal and move as a unit?
Or this is what it’s like to be among your own kind. Killers .
A shudder nearly runs through me at the dark, insistent whisper. I’m not a killer. I’m not my father.
Moonlight kisses my uncle again, highlighting him in the darkness. His glove-covered hand wraps around the doorknob. He looks at each of us, locking eyes and giving a nod. He turns the knob, flinching at the small sounds it makes before slowly easing it open.
He doesn’t let the rest of us move, staying in the doorway cracked open the barest sliver. The dumb fuck is making himself an easy target, crouching there and fumbling in his pocket.
What the fuck—My mouth pops into an O shape. A damn mouth dart gets assembled quickly, and he pulls the dart free of his other pocket, lips pinched in concentration.
I take it back. He’s more creepy when he’s not smiling, or maybe I’ve become numb to it, like exposure therapy, so I get chills whenever I don’t see those lips curled upward. The moment feels pregnant with tension and barely leashed urgency.
I don’t like the fact that he’s at the front—Whimpering reaches my ears and a hand lands on my shoulder, preventing me from surging to my feet to race into who knows what the fuck is on the other side.
That noise. It’s feminine and all too easily, I can imagine it’s Riah.
I don’t care about her, but there’s this tight, uncomfortable feeling in my chest. I have to get to her.
“Calm the fuck down,” Zac hisses, weapon gripped in both hands and fully loaded.
“Do it,” I growl back, jerking out of Zeke’s hold. Zac’s brows crawl up his forehead, but he nods, turning away from me and duck-walking forward, putting less distance between him and the killer.
A soft whistle of air is the only sign he fired the dart. He lowers it, head pressed into the doorframe as he watches to see if his mark hit the target.
More fucking waiting. Fortunately, it’s a shorter one than waiting for Zade to find this guy.
Thump.
We all share a look, giving each other nods, then rushing into the room.
I about dropped to my fucking feet. Oh, God. My hand clamps around my nose as something dead and sickly sweet perfumes the air.
“Oh, my God, that fucking stinks,” Zeke says, echoing my sentiment.
“Help! Please! Let me go!” I whirl toward the bound woman, my stomach bottoming out. Weak fluorescent lights sit flush into the ceiling, barely illuminating the sparse space.
She looks almost nothing like Riah, except for the curly dark hair spread out in a halo around her. Tears glisten in hazel eyes, and some of them stain her cheeks. My eyes drift down her body. Poor lighting highlights the brown tones in her toffee skin that’s more similar to Bella’s shade.
Silky pajama shorts leave her long legs exposed, and a midriff top shows off her flat stomach. Her belly button makes my tongue salivate to dip into the cavern and taste her. I shake my head, stumbling toward her like a drunkard.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
Instead of freeing her, I pause at her side, staring down at her like a creep .
My mouth opens without my command, and I barely recognize my own voice.
“Hello, shush. Shh. Shh. You’re okay,” not-me says, smoothing down the hair at the crown of her head. It’s like an out-of-body-experience. I’m acting on buried instinct.
“You’re safe. For now. Tell me, do you want to be my friend?” More tears spill from her eyes at those words. She jerks her head from me to the other men in the room, seeking guidance. My fingers grip her chin, pulling her gaze to where it belongs.
“Answer me, beauty. You want to live, yes? So, you want to be my friend and do as I say?” Steel slips into my tone, dropping it a couple of octaves. She nods, still silently crying.
My lips stretch into a grin that I know doesn’t belong on my face, like I’ve hacked into Uncle Zac’s brain and donned his persona.
“Good girl.” My smile drops away, eyes flicking to Zeke, who’s closest to the unconscious amateur.
“Get the keys.” He blinks before stooping down. Deaton and Zac watch the scene unfold in silence. Should I say something? What? I’m having a mental crisis, triggered by this woman who reminds me of an alternate Snow White with her mocha skin, pouty lips, and beguiling eyes?
That I want to fuck her almost immediately, that her tears forced my cock awake while death hangs in the air?
I’m a sick fuck. That was never a secret, but it appears I’m still learning more about myself.
And this fucking angel is mine .