Chapter 15
Quill
Present Day
Destroy. Obey. Kill.
I barely repress an eye roll as I open the dramatic-looking envelope and read the inscription inside it.
I wonder what it says about me that I find Devil Army, the biggest and most bloodthirsty secret society on the East Coast, to be cringe?
“Better be a juicy contract,” says Liam, lounging on the couch beside me. “Still haven’t forgiven them for giving their best contract this year to Angel.”
“I’m sure they’re desperate to get back in your good graces,” scoffs Dane, and Liam chucks a cushion at him.
I clench my jaw to keep from snapping at the both of them. I’m aware that this joking little tiff between them is how friends are supposed to act, but I can’t help but find it grating.
Still, I also know that having friends has kept me from falling off the deep end. Sometimes it scares me to think what I might be doing with my time if I weren’t spending it with them.
They really saved me after what happened with the insect, and I’ll always be grateful to them for that.
“Well? Who is it?” questions Dane, taking a swig of his beer and nodding at the card inside the envelope.
“Officer Jeffrey Jones,” I read.
There’s a sudden silence as the two of them stare at each other. “As in… the Officer Jones?” breathes Liam. “The Astley police chief?”
“I guess.”
I’m unbothered as I roll a cigarette, another habit that’s helped to take the edge off my urge. One dead guy is as good as the next. A bullet in one head is as satisfying as a bullet in another.
Except when it comes to her.
“Do we get any details?” asks Dane.
Details is a privilege only afforded certain Devil Soldiers. The more dead bodies you accumulate, the higher your rank. The higher your rank, the more details you get, and the easier the kills are.
Well, they’ve always been easy for me. But sometimes it can get a bit disconcerting when the victim starts begging for mercy, blathering stupid shit that makes no sense. If you have details, you can go in already steeled from their protests.
I read the scribbled inscription below Officer Jones’ name.
Loose end in the Day case.
Oh.
“Well?” prompts Dane.
I repeat the words in a quiet, slow voice. The two of them stare at each other uncomfortably. I guess they know by now what happens when I so much as hear her name on either of their tongues.
I go fucking ballistics.
Even a contract tangentially related to her must freak them out. They’re looking at me carefully, probably wondering what I’m going to do.
I shrug, my go-to reaction. It would take me a lot more than a last name on a piece of paper for me to give a shit.
I’d have no problem slitting my own dad’s throat if his name was on a contract.
I certainly won’t start caring about some chief who’s found out too much about a case related to the girl who ruined my life.
“We’ll bug him tonight,” I decide. “Stake-out tomorrow. Next day, the kill.”
__
Officer Jones leads an astoundingly boring and predictable life.
He stays locked in his office all day, and on the cams Dane set up, I see him polish off an entire box of doughnuts while staring at naked chicks on his computer.
Occasionally there’s a knock the door opens, and the receptionist—Sophie, Liam said her name was—pokes her head in to ask about some asinine thing.
He quickly clicks out of the porn tab and goes back to official-looking online documents, but I don’t see why he bothers.
He’s angled the computer monitor away from the door, so she wouldn’t see what he was up to unless she literally crossed the room and stationed herself behind him.
Which would take at least thirty seconds, and give him ample time to close the tab.
But he strikes me as a jittery kind of guy. A very easy kill.
Way too easy. The amount on the contract—325 grand, which we always share in three equal parts, even though I’m the one who shoots—had led to my hoping that the kill would be a little harder. A little more rewarding.
Nothing worse than being stuck in a career that doesn’t challenge you, Mom said to me once before she abandoned me when I was in first grade.
Now, we’re sitting in the office we set up in my apartment, watching a guy as he watches porn.
This room is where we spend most of our time during our stake-outs, staring at the live feeds on the computer screens. This room is also where we house all our soldier stuff.
Camo pants, combat boots, leather jackets, gloves, AK47s, white blank masks. All of it says soldier to those in the know. To those who aren’t in the know, I guess we just look like terrifying apparitions. The last thing a person sees before he dies.
Every inch of our skin has to be covered. That’s the rule. The boots are a specific type, and local law enforcement know better than to keep looking when they see the Devil footprint. Snoop and you’re dead.
Vaguely I wonder, as I watch Jones unzip his fly and start jerking himself off nervously while glancing around the room, what exactly he’s done to piss off Devil. What kind of a loose end is he? How exactly does he represent a threat?
It’s weird for me to even be having these thoughts. It’s been pummelled into my brain since high school that as a Devil soldier, you do not ask questions.
You simply Destroy. Obey. Kill.
I’m one of the best Devil soldiers there are. I’ve risen rapidly through the ranks, and I probably make more money than most of the others. Tragen, the commanding officer, gives me a new contract twice a week, and I’ve got the routine narrowed down to a science.
Day One. Stalk. Day Two. Kill.
Like a predator. Like the absolute predator I am.
Liam and Dane are softies compared to me, even though Liam especially has sometimes shown off his sadistic side.
He’s probably the loose cannon in our group.
I always have the unsettling feeling I never really know what to expect with him.
I stuck him with the most boring job, doing research on our contracts.
Who they are, their friends, their routine, their background, their family. Any shit that can be useful.
Dane, meanwhile, is the more rational one, and he’s also good with tech. Setting up cams, hacking into systems, that kind of shit.
Both of them, deep down, are cowards though, and they don’t have what it takes to put a bullet in a brain twice a week.
I do, and by all rights I should be making a lot more money than them.
Still, sharing is what friends do, right?
Anyway, I have way more money than I even know what to do with. Even the shittiest contracts get us upward of 50 grand. Usually I’m making at least 100k a week. I’m twenty-one and filthy rich.
Spending seventy thousand on getting a hotel suite for the insect was nothing. Even though I’m aware that I could have spent a whole lot less and achieved the same result.
That result was keeping her freckled upturned nose out of my business. Out of Devil business.
Keeping her away from my army, because I know her well enough to know that she’s the kind of girl who likes to snoop around.
She used to talk to me about Nancy Drew as she bounced on my cock.
Then she graduated to Raymond Chandler. I swear if I ever hear someone talk about how hot Philip Motherfucking Marlowe is again, I will slit his throat.
I train my eyes back to Jones, who’s still jerking himself off, while Dane and Liam pretend to gag.
“Fucking hell, man,” groans Liam. “I did not sign up for this bullshit when we accepted the contract.”
“You didn’t accept jack shit,” Dane reminds him. “When you’re a soldier, it’s kill or be killed. Not accepting means you’re the next contract.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Liam yawns. “You know what I meant. So, how long do we watch this idiot spank the monkey before we go in there and kill him?”
“Stop being a fucking idiot,” growls Dane. “We’re not doing a thing before tomorrow.”
“Okay. I just want to scrub my eyes out with bleach, that’s all.”
I ignore their squabbling. I’m back to thinking about why the hell Jones is about to die because of the Day case. And also, wondering why the hell I’m thinking about it in the first place.
Destroy. Obey. Kill.
All these years of contracts and this is the first time I’m thinking.
The parents of the girl I hate are dead. Good fucking riddance. That’s what I should be thinking.
Instead I’m curious about the guy who’s currently jizzing all over the dank, crusty rag he’s laid on his lap. A rag that has definitely been used for this before, and doesn’t look like it’s been washed all that often.
“Ew,” chokes out Liam. “Seriously, guys, let’s kill the motherfucker now.”
“Bro,” huffs Dane, “you know very well we can’t—what are you doing?”
Those last words are directed at me. I’ve suddenly risen from my seat.
Then I grab the clothes and pull them over my hoodie and sweats.
I tug on the cords to make the hood snug around my face.
That’s the one personal thing I keep. The hoodie.
I know I shouldn’t, but who the hell would recognize me anyway in my faceless mask?
Dane and Liam are both staring at me, their mouths open.
“What are you doing, man?” asks Dane again.
“Going to kill him,” I grunt, fitting the mask over my face.
“Uh… what about our stake-out?” questions Liam.
“Fuck our stake-out. This guy’s an easy kill. Let’s just get it over with.”
I’m lying, but I don’t think they can tell. I’ve gotten very good at lying over the years.
Happy Birthday, man! Thanks for being such a great friend.
Hey, how was your day?
So sorry your dad died. I’m here if you need anything.
All words a normal friend would say. I’ve gotten good at playing the part.
Liam and Dane hurry to get ready too. Both of them have accepted that I’m the de facto leader. They pretty much accepted it the very first day of training, when we were just starting as initiates. I guess no matter how much I lie, something about me screams I’m a killing machine.
They were right. I’ve made them millionaires.