Chapter 33
The barrel pressed against the base of my skull, cold and unyielding through the hood’s fabric, a lover’s touch turned executioner’s kiss. Marcus Krogen’s voice slithered into my ear, low and venomous, scotch sour on his breath.
“It’s the end, Butcher.” he said, finger tightening on the trigger. “You’ve had your fun. But the game’s over.”
"Easy," I said, my voice muffled by the hood, rough from the exertion, the leather mask inside it sticking to my sweat-slicked skin, the taste of blood and adrenaline bitter on my tongue. "Just turning around."
Marcus's laugh was a dry rasp, the gun pressing harder, the barrel digging into the base of my skull with a thud that sent a shiver down my spine, not fear, but anticipation, the moment I'd orchestrated for years, the empire crumbling under my blade.
"Turn, then. Let's see the face behind the mask.
The ghost who's been fucking my empire. Who are you? Some rival's dog? A cop with a grudge?"
I turned slowly, hands raised, the wreckage laid bare, bodies scattered, blood pooling across the concrete, the metallic stench heavy in the air. Flies were already gathering, the sound of their buzzing cutting through the silence.
Marcus stood ahead, silver hair gleaming under the flickering lights, suit immaculate, gun steady.
His eyes, cold and sharp, locked on the slits of my hood.
“Why?” he demanded, voice low and dangerous.
“My syndicate’s not the only one out there.
Plenty of players in this game, Russians, Colombians, the Asians.
Why me? Why gut my operations, free my girls like some bleeding-heart vigilante?
What’s your angle, Butcher? Money? Territory? Or just a grudge?”
I kept my hands raised, the leather gloves slick with blood, the knife's absence a void at my hip, but my mind was clear, the rage a cold fire that burned steady, fueled by the graphic tableau I'd wrought. Marcus’s men had been fodder, quick kills, messy ones.
Knives sank, flesh parted, blood sprayed warm across my coat before the bodies hit the floor.
But him? This was personal, the endgame I'd orchestrated the empire crumbling under my blade.
"Do you remember Lila?" I asked, my voice muffled by the hood, rough from the fight, but steady, the name dropping like a grenade in the silence.
Marcus blinked, confusion flickering in his eyes, the gun dipping slightly as he processed it, his face twisting in puzzlement.
"Lila? What the fuck is that? Some whore from a shipment?
I've sold hundreds, thousands, maybe. Names blur after a while.
You some pimp with a grudge? Or did she suck your dick and you got sentimental? "
The laugh that escaped me was cold, devoid of humor, my hands still raised but fingers flexing, the leather creaking.
"A whore? That's what you called them all, isn't it? The girls you shipped like cattle, drugged and chained, their wrists ground to bone, their screams muffled with gags soaked in their own vomit.”
Marcus’s sneer faltered. I reached up, fingers hooking the edge of the hood, and pulled it back. The air hit my face like ice, the warehouse light glinting off the sweat and grime streaking my skin. “And what about mother or our sister that you sold off? Do you not remember them as well?"
Marcus's gun clattered to the floor, his face ashen, eyes wide with shock, the empire's king reduced to a man staring at his own ghost. "Keith... Why? How? You're... the Butcher?”