Prologue
GRIFFIN
Fourteen Years Ago
Vincent Daniels’ shadow comes in and out of view, through the thin curtain facing the street.
Midnight’s come and gone and this son of a bitch hasn’t shut a light off.
He’s been pacing his living room, since I stopped my Regal across the street.
A guilty conscience, maybe? Is the thought of that girl’s innocence playing on his mind?
No. His pacing doesn’t stem from a sense of panic, but one of pride. He’s got another notch on his belt and God knows I should use it to strangle him.
An icy chill of cold air stings my lungs as I step out of the car. The inky black night barely allows the light of the overhead lamp to penetrate the darkness. I make one final check for my badge, gun, and handcuffs.
I rest my hand on the police radio connected to the dashboard.
It’s been turned down since the moment I clocked off my shift.
I won’t be calling for backup tonight, because I won’t be risking my badge or my freedom when I go in alone.
I’ve spent months following Vincent Daniels through dark alleyways and quiet neighborhoods—now I’m sure about him.
Tonight, the full force of the law will fall on him: my law, that is. My vengeance.
This man needs to be punished, and I’m the one who will do it right.
I approach Vincent’s house, pulling on a pair of blue surgical gloves before slipping my brown leather ones over the top. I drive my fist into the thick oak door, tempering my rage enough not to break it down. There’s a shuffling sound inside, and it’s not long until I hear the monster’s voice.
“Who is it?” Vincent asks. He sounds drunk, slurring his words, adding a sh sound over the s.
“Whitefish Police Department. I’d like to have a few words with you, Mr. Daniels,” I say, holding my badge up to the peephole.
I scan the length of Peach Street, up and down, ensuring no one’s around. A purely nervous habit; I’ve observed this street for months. No one’s around because most of Vincent’s neighbors are elderly; asleep before nine and awake with the sunrise.
My window of opportunity is brief, but I always work best on a time crunch.
A slide lock jingles on the other side, before a key twist unlocks the door. I keep my badge in the air until the door’s open and Vincent’s gaunt face is staring at the glittering gold. He squints to read my name and badge number.
“Kennedy, like the president,” he says.
I tuck my badge back into my belt loop. “Like the president,” I say as I take a step forward, but before I can enter, Vincent presses a hand against my chest to stop me from getting any further.
“Not so fast,” he says, still slurring. “What’s it you want?”
“A few words. I’d prefer we do it the easy way.”
His hand remains on my chest. “I don’t see a warrant.”
The hairs on Vincent’s spindly arm are standing upright from the cold breeze passing me and into him.
“And you’re not going to,” I say.
“Then I’m not gonna let you i—”
Enough of this.
I grab his limp wrist and snap his arm back as far as it will bend. I drive my second hand forward, clasping his mouth shut. Vincent collapses to the ground, and I follow him with a constant pushing motion, until I hear the satisfying pop of a dislocating shoulder.
He screams against the padding of my leather glove, but the sound doesn’t travel far. When I’m certain his arm’s unusable, I slide my hand around my back and draw a Walther PPK. It’s suppressed, the serial number’s filed off and the safety is down, but there isn’t a single bullet inside.
I don’t kill with guns. They’re too messy.
“I’m going to release your mouth,” I say, once Vincent’s screeching settles. “If you make a noise, I’m going to take your head off. Do you understand?”
His predatory watery green eyes blink rapidly, but his head eventually bobs in confirmation.
I press the barrel of my gun against his temple, inching my hand away from his mouth. He’s writhing and agonized groans escape his lips, but he doesn’t dare scream.
“Wh… what’s this about?” he asks. The drunken slurring has vanished from his voice. There’s nothing like a broken arm to sober a person up.
“You took advantage of two young, innocent girls, tonight.” I stand upright and with a hard shove of the boot, Vincent’s body slides against the glossed wooden floor. I follow him in, closing the door behind us.
“What?” he asks in protest, but his eyes betray those words. They’re glazed over in fear. I know his dirty secret. I watched him do it, while the babysitter was fast asleep beside him.
I peer into the living room, the very same one I’d been watching pace through all evening.
A half-smoked cigar lies dormant in an ashtray, with a bottle of champagne at its side.
The dining room is opposite, and I glance into it briefly.
He’s alone, I made sure of it before coming anywhere near him, but the cop in me can’t fight natural instinct.
“Celebrating, are we?” The Walther never wavers, and it deters Vincent from making a risky move. Good, because if he reached for a gun of his own, I wouldn’t be able to clear the distance between us. But this sick fuck can’t stand against a real man. He preys on women and children.
I am his reckoning.
Vincent takes time to formulate his lie, stuttering and muttering bullshit until settling on one. “I just got a promotion at work.”
“Funny, in the four months I’ve been watching you, I haven’t seen you go into an office once. In fact, when I spoke with Jason Brady, he said you’re living off the government in your dead mother’s house. Or is the pink flowery design a personal touch?” I ask.
I’d have never found this bastard, without Jason Brady’s help.
Hell, I’d have never known he existed. Jason is a low-down thug, slinging guns and dope to the highest bidders, but I can overlook his crimes in exchange for information.
We have a mutual respect for one another, as much as a cop and crook can, anyway.
There’s a sudden shift in Vincent’s demeanor. From the scared fool on the floor to the monster I’d learned about in my months of watching. He reaches for his shoulder, still wincing at the pain, but he’s no longer squirming or showing weakness.
“So, you caught me. Who cares?” he spits.
There he is. That’s what I like to see.
“Why’d you do it?”
“The thrill of the hunt,” he says.
What I do is true hunting. Finding the scum of this earth and ensuring those they harm get justice. They’ll never know about my exploits, or how I’ve defended their honor, but I don’t do this for the glory. I do it to make this world safer for those who can’t protect themselves.
“She’s a child,” I say.
“And now she’s mine.” A twisted grin stretches across Vincent’s face, exposing his yellowing teeth. “A girl never forgets her first, right?”
What else could I have expected from someone like this? Getting off on the suffering of innocence. That poor girl. I hope that youth is on her side and she forgets this whole ordeal ever happened.
Vincent continues dragging himself along the floor with his good arm, and I continue following.
“Go on then, piggy,” he says. “Put me in cuffs and take me away. There ain’t shit they’re going to do to me. There’s no proof.”
He wears his arrogance proudly. However, in this corrupt society of ours, he might well be right.
I can’t risk him walking free, especially when I haven’t followed a single protocol to arrest him.
But, I’m not here to throw him into the system.
After what this bastard’s done I won’t give him the satisfaction of walking my streets anymore.
I slide the Walther back into its holster, replacing it in my hand with a syringe. Vincent’s eyes meet the needle, and his brow scrunches in confusion.
With two great strides, I clear the distance between us and drive the sole of my boot into his forehead. The blow sends his head back, and his skull thuds against the wooden floor. Dazed, but not knocked out, he tries to speak.
I allow him no words before plunging my syringe into his neck and squeezing the contents into his bloodstream.
“Who are you?” choked words finally tear through his lips.
“I am your executioner,” I say.
His eyes flicker the same as they did before. Now he’s fighting against the slumber my concoction will induce.
“God will be your judge and jury.”
I remove my leather gloves, keeping the surgical ones on while I get to work. There’s no use spoiling a decent pair for this bastard.
They will find him in the morning, as they’ve found many before; wrists nailed to the wall holding him in place. I will have his eyes and tongue as punishment for his acts, sending him to the afterlife blind and speechless.
I’m not a religious man, no. And I doubt I’d do what I do if I were.
But, if St Peter is indeed sorting out the chaff from the wheat above, I want him to sentence this dick to Hell without wasting any more time.
An eternity of suffering isn’t enough, and Vincent Daniels’ punishment can’t start soon enough.