Chapter 10 The Honorable Piece of Shit #2
From the outside, the place looked quiet and obsessively maintained. The garden beds were trimmed, the windows spotless, the paint fresh like someone was constantly touching it up. Everything about it had that warm, cozy look people try to create when they want a house to feel perfect.
She opened the door, expecting him. Probably thought he’d come early to surprise her. Maybe to fuck her in that silky robe she wore like bait.
Instead, she got me.
She barely had time to gasp. I stepped in fast, yanked the black gaiter over my face, and slammed the muzzle of the gun straight into her lips.
“Shut up, bitch,” I said, calm as winter.
The word hit harder than the steel. Her scream collapsed on itself, dying into a strangled, terrified whimper as she stumbled backward.
Sashko slipped in behind me and turned the lock with practiced ease. He didn’t make a sound—just a quiet click of the latch and a glance to confirm it was done.
She crumpled to the floor, shaking, her wide eyes glued to the gun like it had already gone off. Her fingers twitched against the tile. No shoes. Red toenails. Stupid detail to notice, but I did.
“Good,” I said. “Now listen.”
I crouched down in front of her, easing myself lower until our eyes met on the same level.
“Do you have cameras in this house?”
She shook her head, too fast.
“Say it.”
“No,” she breathed. “No cameras. He doesn’t like them.”
I studied her face. She was trying not to cry, but the tears were already there, pooling beneath her lashes. People lie all the time—but not when they’ve stared death in the face and watched it smile back.
I gave a single nod.
Sashko moved quietly through the house, checking every corner with methodical precision. He inspected the windows, secured the doors, examined the alarm panels. Each sweep was deliberate, efficient, leaving nothing to chance.
I kept my eyes on her.
“I won’t hurt you,” I said, my voice rough as gravel. “If you do exactly what I say.”
She nodded, lip trembling.
“But if you scream... if you run... if you so much as blink wrong—” I tapped the gun against her cheek. Light, but loaded with meaning. “—I’ll put a bullet in your skull. Understand?”
“Yes,” she choked.
I stood, took a slow step back. Let her breathe. Let her think she could survive this. Fear is sharpest when hope’s still alive.
“Good girl.”
She flinched at that, like the words themselves hurt more than the gun.
“You’re going to calm the fuck down,” I said dryly. “You’re not in danger—unless you decide to get dramatic. Keep it together. Play your part. Channel your inner actress.”
She drew in a shaky breath and wiped her face with the back of a trembling hand, forcing herself upright with a steadiness that didn’t quite match the terror in her eyes.
It was as if she’d done this before—faced down violence, stared into the barrel of power wielded by dead-eyed men.
Men like me. Men like Sashko. We weren’t her first nightmare.
“You open the door the way you always do,” I continued. “Smile like you’re thrilled to see him, even if your insides are doing backflips. If he hesitates, flinches, or god forbid, gets suspicious—I paint the floor with your brains.”
I lifted the gun again, not aiming. Just showing.
“Got it?”
Her eyes flooded again. She nodded.
“Say it.”
“I understand.”
Sashko returned. He gave me a nod.
Clear.
We waited. Silence thick enough to slice.
When the doorbell finally rang, she froze like a deer before the shot.
“On your feet.”
She stood, legs wobbling. Smoothed her robe. Reset her face. Walked to the door with a smile so convincing it almost fooled me.
I stepped into the shadows, gun raised, ready.
This bastard—this noble judge—was about to die in the arms of his mistress.
He’d lied to his wife, funded this house, snuck off twice a week for pussy and lies. Thought himself untouchable. A man above judgment.
Tonight, he was meeting mine.
The door clicked open.
“There’s my little solnishko (sunshine),” the judge crooned, stepping inside like he owned the air she breathed. He shut the door behind him, sealing them in. “You look good enough to eat. I was thinking about you in traffic, you on your knees. Almost crashed the car.”
He laughed as he reached for her, his hands greedy and practiced, fingers gripping her cheeks, thumbs grazing her lips like she was a toy he couldn’t wait to unwrap.
“You miss me?” he murmured, before pressing his lips to hers.
She let him kiss her without pulling away, standing perfectly still as if locked in place, her body trembling and every muscle drawn tight with fear.
And then I moved.
I stepped forward from the shadows, my arm steady and my trigger finger certain, and fired a single shot—silent and clean, the whisper of the suppressed round slicing through the air.
His head snapped back with a sickening crack—blood exploding across her chest, her throat, her face. His skull fractured open, bone shards and brain matter splattering across the pristine tile.
He collapsed instantly, body going slack and heavy, crumpling to the ground without control.
She staggered back, a choked gasp caught in her throat. Her knees buckled, but she didn’t fall. She didn’t scream.
Her hands flew to her mouth, trembling. Her entire body vibrated like a struck wire. Her eyes—wide, glassy, drenched in horror—locked on his corpse, as if she couldn’t believe it had once been human.
“Wash up,” I said, voice sharp and guttural.
I pointed toward the hallway. Not a request. An order.
She nodded. Then turned and disappeared down the hall, the smear of red across her neck trailing with her like a shadow.
Sashko stepped out from behind the curtain, surveying the scene.
“Fuck,” he muttered. “Did you have to shoot him while his tongue was still in her mouth? That’s cold. Even for you.”
I holstered my weapon and stared at the puddle of man on the floor.
“Timing is everything,” I said. “And if he was lucky, he died with a hard-on.”
Sashko started checking the perimeter, glancing out the window toward the front exit where the judge’s security sat in a car outside. They were close enough to guard the house but not close enough to hear much. We didn’t expect a response, not this fast.
As I turned back toward the hallway, a flicker of unease crept in. The girl was gone, vanished without a trace. A low pulse of instinct flared in my chest—I didn’t like that. Not one bit.
The house had fallen into a tense silence. There was no sound of running water, no footsteps, no indication of movement.
I began moving through the house, each step muffled by polished tile. One bedroom door stood open, revealing a neatly made bed and nothing else. The next door was shut, silent behind its pristine frame.
Then it came—a soft, unmistakable rattle. Pills.
I crossed the hall in two strides and pushed the door open without hesitation.
She was in the master bedroom, crumpled on the floor near the edge of the bed.
Her knees were drawn to her chest, body trembling, the silky robe she wore now stiff with dried blood.
A bottle of pills was clutched in her hands, her fingers fumbling at the cap with a desperation so visceral it looked like she truly believed the only way out was at the bottom of that bottle.
Her hands were shaking so hard they couldn’t even twist the cap open.
“Put that down.”
She jumped like I’d struck her. Her head snapped up.
Her face was pale, blotched with dried blood and tears. Still smeared with whatever was left of the judge’s skull. Her eyes were red, but her stare was hollow.
“You wanted to die,” I said calmly, “you could’ve just asked. I’m faster.”
She let out a brittle sound, something caught between a sob and a hollow, bitter laugh, then turned her face away as if the very sight of me stirred something sharper than grief—anger, maybe even disgust.
“I’m nobody without him.”
I stepped forward, slow.
“He was a good man,” she whispered. “He was helping me.”
I leaned against the doorframe. “You’ll find yourself another sugar daddy.”
She snapped.
“Fuck you.”
Something sharp twisted in my jaw.
The air changed.
I stepped further inside, slow and deliberate.
She had no idea who she was talking to. No clue how close she’d just come to learning what it meant to make a man like me angry.
My hands didn’t move but my blood was heating.
Her voice cracked with rage. She looked up at me, tears streaking through the grime on her cheeks. “He wasn’t my sugar daddy, you heartless fuck. He was helping me find my son.”
She choked on the word. Son.
And then it came, raw and heaving. “He’s out there. Missing. My little boy. And now… now I have no one left. No hope. No plan. No faith. Nothing.”
I didn’t say a word.
“You should be ashamed,” she spat. “You work for the man who takes children in broad daylight. Who pays off the police and buys men like you to keep him safe. You help monsters like Sokolov. And you killed the only one who gave a damn.”
She curled up again, rocking like she was trying to make herself disappear.
I stayed for another second. Two. My jaw clenched so tight it ached.
And then I turned and walked out.
She wasn’t my problem. It was her life. I wasn’t going to kill her—but if she wanted to throw it away, that was her choice. I wasn’t here to play savior. I’d done my job.
But her words burned like acid in my ears the whole way back to the car.
Sashko and I slipped out through the back window and climbed down quietly into the dark, keeping low so the guards on the other side of the house wouldn’t notice us.
We crossed the yard in silence and kept walking for about a mile before reaching the spot where we had hidden the car.