Killer Bones (CNC Fraternity Prequel)

Chapter 1

Adelmo

The last time I saw Izabella, her friends were burning and blown apart, she was running away, and bits of me were melting in those flames.

So… This night is getting more interesting? Yes? It has segued from boring prelude to a boring hit, to a long-lost date.

When she pauses, her face is highlighted by the overhanging streetlights, and I’m certain it’s her. Those killer cheekbones are unforgettable. I sat next to her, elbow to elbow, smelling her, at that bar, Chasos, for ages that night. Some women smell of fear when I’m close to them, but she smelt of arrogance, desire, and certainty. It was an intriguing combination.

She turns away and resumes walking, looking like a tasty kitten strolling through a forest, set on being eaten by the wolf. Her ass switches, to and fro beneath a flimsy red coat that clutches at her. It sticks to her thighs or her curvaceous bottom with possessive clinginess.

The humidity is high; the air drips with jungle heat. I imagine her sweat attracting the cloth, imagine my teeth wedged in her neck, and the tang of her skin under my tongue.

Her red heels tap rhythmically on the concrete pavement, a metronome slicing up the music of lust. Tick-tock, tick-tock. She has appeared in precisely the wrong place at the wrong time.

I think I know why she is here. Her articles on nepotism, tyranny, and crime have gone viral since the burning. Montez is a frequent target for her writing, as is my brother.

Distracting little creature.

Distractions can be fun. A brief flash of the moth sizzling in the flame. Or, sometimes, an atomic-blast-level conflagration.

Once again, I used fire to describe. Telling.

I touch the side of my face. The ragged ridges, hollows, and grisly lumps of scars stir ugly memories. A scarred man can be a remarkable thing. For a man like me blending into the background is better.

I am here to kill Montez, and he might like to kill both her and me in a two-for-one deal. If he knew my true name.

Of course Montez Flores has yet to truly see me.

Five years since I was left convulsing and smoldering on the ground with wisps of smoke rising heavenward.

I guess if you liked fires in a pyromaniac way you might remember that fondly.

I’m not a pyromaniac. I’m just a killer.

Izzy sways down the darkened street between deserted offices, closed-down stores, and shut eateries, and I contemplate following her to her destination. The lights here are less frequent, the street darkens. I scouted this street days ago. It’s adjacent to my own, and the CCTV is nonexistent. Vehicle dashcams are another matter, of course, and a random factor one needs to be aware of.

Years ago, I marked her down as a date.

I don’t forget my dates.

I stop dead, shoe soles scuffling on the pavement grit.

After I shot him, I picked up that trinket he wore, and prior to him dying I picked up the word at the bar—the word they arranged as a signal. I wonder if she remembers.

The bracelet was in my belongings at the hospital, and every day that I see it I trip backward in time.

The little knitted silver beads on my wrist bump under my palm. They seem to heat as they roll, these seeds of metal.

They whisper to me.

And smell of ashes.

Of gunfire and screams.

Of passion unrequited.

Of delicious death, painful living, and a woman running into the night.

Perhaps it’s a trick of the mind.

This is the same palm I use to smother mouths while I watch their lives drain to nothing.

That we have met again is not Fate. I make my own fate. Her red heels will look nice on my trophy shelf.

Decision made, I start walking.