Chapter 15 #2
Dane sticks in his bluetooth earpiece and settles at his place in front of the computer. Liam goes out with me, ready to give me info on who is who and what is what. Ready to note any danger sign, or cover up anything that needs covering up.
We head out into the biting cold air. It’s not much later than 4 p.m., but winter means darkness has fallen early. Jones doesn’t strike me as the type of guy who stays at work later than he has to, but even so, he’ll probably be around for at least an hour.
If we’d done the stakeout as we should have, we would know for sure. But whatever.
The insect fucks with my brain. Even hearing her last name is enough to make me go nuts. I need to quiet my fucking thoughts.
We walk hurriedly to the center of Astley, bowing our heads low to keep anyone from seeing us.
My hoodie helps keep my face in the shadows.
Meanwhile, Liam’s got a hat scrunched over his head.
In the darkness, no one could see our masks unless they really looked, and it’s far too cold for anyone to show the least curiosity.
As a rule, anyway, Astley folks aren’t curious. When you live in the same town as Devil, you quickly learn that it’s a bad idea to ask questions.
But if we’d done the stake-out as we should have, we’d have had a game plan on how to get to Jones without being seen. Instead, we’re hurrying down Astley streets like the world’s two biggest idiots, dressed in our kill attire.
The words of Tragen echo in my brain, an uncomfortable refrain. “You’re good, Quill, very good. But don’t get too comfortable. It only takes one bad contract to fuck it all up. Keep your guard up, soldier.”
I grit my teeth, well aware that this is exactly the kind of situation he was talking about.
Fuck it.
The earpiece in my ear is full of static in the snowy outdoors, and I have the uncomfortable feeling a snowstorm is drawing near. I hear Dane’s voice, saying something I can’t understand. “Hey. Wait. There’s…”
The rest of his words are muffled, and I’m too impatient to try to figure them out. I turn off the earpiece and rip it out. I catch just a glance of Liam’s worried face, looking pale even in the pale glow of the moonlight, as it’s reflected back at me from the police station window.
We’ve reached Jones’ final resting place. Without even exchanging the beginning of a plan with Liam—a plan we usually spend hours hammering out—I barge into the station, kicking open the door.
I’ve seen enough from the feed to know that apart from Jones, only Sophie is working here today.
She shrieks loudly as I grab her by the arm and push her to the side. Liam keeps her restrained as I stomp into the back office.
Fuck.
Jones isn’t alone anymore. I guess at some point he stopped jerking off to naked tits, and now he’s standing behind his desk as a woman chats with him. There’s a kid next to her who can’t be older than three.
Fuck, fuck, fuck. His family.
His family is about to watch him die.
A bead of cold sweat forms on my temple. If I’d been prepared, I’d have known his family was coming to visit him.
“Fuck, man,” breathes Liam behind me.
Then I hear him make a gutteral noise, the kind that tells me he just realized he fucked up. Forgot rule number two.
Don’t speak.
What’s the point of wearing a mask and covering every inch of skin in clothes if your voice is going to give you away?
Especially now, with three fucking witnesses.
I could turn the gun to Liam and kill him right now. But I won’t, because I’m aware that my fuck-up far outweighs his.
Meanwhile, Jones’ wife has dropped to the floor. Her first thought, faced with what she probably believes is impending death for them all, is for her kid. She hugs the little girl to her, doing her best to shield her from the weapon I’m holding in my hand.
Jones, on the other hand, has inched back to the wall, not even giving his family another look, exactly like the fucking coward he is.
He stares at the gun, which I haven’t even cocked at anyone yet, absolute terror etched in the lines of his face, and a disgusting smell fills the room. He’s just pissed himself.
No, shat himself.
Repulsive.
If I hadn’t been about to kill him, his lack of bowel control would have done it. I train my gun to his shaking, cowardly face.
“Please, don’t kill her. Don’t hurt her,” sobs out the woman, and inexplicably, I find myself wishing I could break rule number two myself just to reassure her.
Don’t worry. I’m not a monster.
Well, not that kind of monster.
I may be a psychopath, but I’d never kill an animal or a kid. I don’t know what that says about me. Most serial killers start by torturing tiny, helpless creatures, but I guess I skipped a few steps and went straight to killing adults.
Unless you count torturing the insect. I definitely did that.
But I also beat the shit out of anyone who so much as existed a little too closely in her general vicinity, and when she started to date in college, I turned to killing.
No one fucking dates her.
Now, as I aim my gun at Jones’ head, I realize all the risk I’m taking is because of her.
Because he was mentioned in the same sentence as her last name.
What kind of a psychopath am I?
Where’s the limit to my murderous obsession? I can’t fucking kill the whole world because she lives in it, can I?
Maybe I can.
“Please,” blubbers Jones, finding his voice after his initial shock—and subsequent shit.
“Please. I played by the rules. Please. Please, don’t kill me.
I’ll give you anything. Whatever your contract’s worth, I’ll double it.
Please.” He’s crying, embarrassing, pathetic tears running down his face.
“Please. The second I realized it was a Devil killing, I covered it up. I even called her and said her parents had died in a murder-suicide, or a suicide pact. I’m sure she believed it. Please. I called Piper Day and–”
I pull the trigger and his head explodes before he can say another word.
Then I pull it again, and again, and again, riddling his body with every bullet in my gun as his wife and kid scream.
I get the feeling that’s going to leave some trauma.
He should have thought twice about allowing my insect’s name on his tongue.