Chapter 20
Mace
Leaning against the building’s brick exterior, I stand watch as Ash picks the lock—not that anyone is going to come snooping around; people here don’t give a shit. Even if they hear a scream. Or maybe especially then.
Ash is crouched low beside me, his back toward the street. His hood is raised, with a black fleece balaclava-type ski mask underneath, the face shield down like mine. We don’t raise them up just yet; they’re for dramatic effect later.
Fidgeting with my hands in my pockets, I glance left then right. Everything is quiet, but I’m itchy. I wanted to do this. I’ve been planning this night for too long.
Damn rock. Every other time Ash would play scissors, but today he throws paper?
“Tada!” he whispers, a grin on his face as he opens the door without a sound.
Showoff!
I roll my eyes and sneak past him. “About time,” I sneer over my shoulder. I could’ve done it just as well.
Maybe faster .
Breaking and entering has become one of our specialties. Sometimes it’s to steal, sometimes to leave something; it’s whatever Mr. DeMarco requires of us. We sneak in, we sneak out, without anyone the wiser until morning.
If at all.
But tonight, it’s a bit more than that. And we’re not here under the boss’s authority, either. This one is a personal matter to us.
We ghost up the stairs and down the dark hallway. It’s been three years since we’ve stepped foot into this wretched place, but we still remember every turn… every stain on these walls.
Cold fingers tease up my nape when we reach the apartment door and repeat the spiel on the lock. It feels eerie to creep back in here after all this time. I wonder if they’ll even recognize us.
Adjusting his mask over his mouth and nose, Ash takes the lead. I raise mine up too and check the dial on my watch. It’s 4:26 a.m. when we breach the threshold.
A heaviness settles over me with the first step in. The apartment looks exactly the same, sucking me instantly back into my memories.
My muscles freeze.
I close my eyes and force the lump forming in my throat down, taking a moment to mourn the innocence of our childhood that was ripped from us here.
My breaths grow deeper, but my hand still trembles when I draw my knife from my back pocket and push on .
My boots whisper along the dark living room carpet. It’s quiet. Save for the subtle snore coming from the Lazy Boy’s direction.
I recognize Jonathan’s baritone timbre, but I know Thomas is around too, even before I find his feet hanging over the side of the couch.
Assessing the room, Ash nods toward the recliner, and we go for the man sleeping there first.
He leans over him when I come up beside him, his left hand braced on the armrest. He taps a gloved finger to his forehead to rouse him, and I can picture the satisfied smirk curling under his mask. It’s the same one I’m carrying. We finally get to take our revenge.
Jonathan’s limbs jerk as his eyes open to the shape hovering over him. But he flails for only a split second before Ash’s knuckles collide with his throat, crushing his windpipe so he can’t scream to alert the others.
With his ass still planted in the recliner, his hands fly up to the injury, eyes wide in shock. He gasps for air, clawing at his jugular, but we know he doesn’t have long.
Ash straightens calmly next to me, mimicking my stance, and I wonder if Jonathan’s oxygen-deprived brain is catching on yet, or whether he thinks he’s seeing double—same black clothes and masks, we look identical.
In my periphery, Ash reaches for his mask. He slides it down slowly, drawing out the suspense until his full face is revealed underneath.
Jonathan’s expression reaches another level of terror, and his eyes dart from Ash to me, finding the same green there, glaring at him through the hole in the fleece. I don’t need to lower mine. He knows.
“He’s all yours.” I look at my brother, then back to him before making a motion to leave.
On a last, desperate burst, Jonathan’s hand shoots toward Ash. He makes an attempt to get up, his mouth flopping like a fish to call out to Thomas only a few feet away.
Ash takes a step back, his chuckle carrying to my ears as Jonathan drops to his knees, the air in his lungs depleted.
But his wide stare remains on me when I turn toward the door on my right.
“Hey! Over here,” I hear Ash tell him. “Eyes on me, asshole.”
I catch the flick and the faint sound of his knife plunging into soft tissue, chased by more slicing of fabric, but I don’t turn to watch my brother’s mayhem.
Walking past the couch, I leave Thomas to Ash, too. I have only one target in mind.
My right grip clenches around the steel handle of my knife, the blade still sheathed inside when I reach for the bedroom door. I pull it toward me, rotating the knob silently from the wrist, then push.
Ely doesn’t stir. I find him sprawled out flat on his stomach, a blanket covering him only from the waist down.
Slipping the flex cuffs out of my hoodie’s front pouch, I straddle him from behind and grab his wrist.
“What the fuck?” His head jerks up, but before he even knows what’s happening, I have his hands restrained at his back .
“Who the fuck are you?” he bellows, his body bending to look over his shoulder at me as he tries to wrestle me off.
He’s bigger than me still. He twists and squirms under my weight, but I made sure I’d keep the upper hand.
Pressing my forearm into his back, I lean down, and flick my blade open. “Time to pay up, Ely.” I wag the tip in front of his face. “The devil has come to collect your soul.”
“What?” His voice is hoarse, and I catch the deep crease between his brows as his eyes lock with mine. He doesn’t understand what’s going on yet.
But he will.
“Johnathan and Thomas are dead, and you’re next,” I clarify, listening to the muffled screams coming from the other room as Ash is carving up Ely’s second henchman.
My guy hears it too. His eyes swing to the open bedroom door before returning to me, and I see a glimmer of realization sparking. He knows I’m not bluffing.
But he still doesn’t grasp the reason I’m here. “Why?” he has the fucking nerve to ask.
I stab my knife into the pillow beside his head. Rage shooting through my veins, I rip my mask down and growl, “Remember me?”
Ely refocuses on my face, then his eyes widen. “M-Mason,” he stammers.
I reach into my pouch again, getting out the garrote. I don’t want this to be quick. I need him to suffer.
Gripping the little wooden handles at each end, I loop the wire around his neck and pull.
Ely’s muscles jerk as the line draws tight, and I cut off his carotid artery. I want to feel the life drain out of him .
My tension on the garrote jitters under the force I’m putting up with every second that ticks by. The wire slices through the skin at his jugular, and blood stains the white sheets before he loses the fight and goes limp.
Unwinding the line, I tuck it back into my sweatshirt and lift off his body to flip him around under me. I switch into autopilot. I can’t stop myself from ripping the knife free and plunging it into his chest.
Again and again I stab him, my gloved grip slick. All I see is red. I can’t stop.
I hear a shot go off but ignore it still stuck in my blind rampage. I’m drenched in Ely’s blood.
Then Ash is beside me. “Mace…” He yanks on my shoulder. “Mace, stop! That’s enough. He’s dead.”
I turn and see him shove a hand gun I’ve never seen before into the front of his waistband. Then both his hands are pulling me. “Let’s go.”
I sheath my blade and climb off Ely’s mutilated corpse to follow Ash into the kitchen. When we pass the other two bodies in the living room, I notice the bullet hole in Thomas’ forehead.
“Where did you get a gun?” I ask, reaching for the bottle of cheap vodka on the counter.
Is it the man’s own? I don’t know if he was packing or where Ely stashed his.
“DeMarco.”
I pop the cap on the liquor as Ash continues his rifling. Drawers and cabinets slam. “You know they can match that shit, right?” It’s why I prefer knives. We leave nothing behind .
“Relax.” He sets down two more bottles he found tucked away. “It went right through. I picked up the slug and the casing too. The cops won’t match shit.”
I pour a trail from the kitchen into the living room, dousing the bodies there for good measure while Ash stuffs rags into the two additional bottles.
“Here.” Meeting up with me, he hands me one.
I pull out my lighter and watch the rag catch fire before launching the bottle through the open bedroom door. My aim ensures it smashes against the wall to disperse the flammable substance properly.
Ash does the same with his, propelling it toward a wall in the living room on our way out. Pulling the door shut, we leave it all to burn.
We hurry back down the stairs the way we came. I don’t turn over my shoulder. I don’t look at the carnage in our wake. They deserved everything.
My hands tremble and my knees go soft as we make it across the street to safety. Only now can I manage to face the aftermath of my plan.
With Ash beside me, I swing around to look up at the angry flames flickering behind the third story windows and the smoke rising. But I don’t feel guilty. I don’t feel relieved.
I only feel sick.
A shutter roils through me, and bile burns my throat. Lunging toward the closest trash can, I hurl.
Hunched over with my head in the bin, somehow Ash’s laugh finds its way to my ears. “You know they can match that shit, right?”