Chapter 1
Inertia
Max
It’s been four years since I took over the business.
Four years since the boss, Kahl Hera, was murdered.
I had launched an internal investigation to see who would be capable of killing the most hated and untouchable man of Seattle.
Nothing came of it originally, but over the last four years, there has been a web of homicides that have connected Kahl’s.
The murder scenes are always different and unique in the aspect of how the victims died, but there is one factor that never changes.
There, in the right palm of each victim, is a sparrow carved deeply into their skin.
That’s where the killer gets their nickname—The Sparrow.
The Sparrow has always been one step ahead of me, no more, no less.
I even caught a glimpse of their silhouette last month when they were vacating a scene.
I would have chased after them, had my jaw not been on the floor of the old, abandoned warehouse in complete shock and admiration.
At this particular scene, The Sparrow had strung up Archer Calhoun from his ribcage.
His ribs have been broken apart and pulled from his back as if to mimic wings.
The Viking Blood Eagle. I hadn’t seen it done before, in real life that is—I was starstruck.
Completely overcome with adoration. I have always appreciated the work of The Sparrow, but this scene was a work of art.
I was even partly jealous that I hadn’t come up with this kill myself.
I can’t think of a more perfect way of killing Archer Calhoun.
He was known as the ‘Destroyer of Innocence’, primarily due to his part in the Seattle sex trafficking ring; specifically, because he’d be the one to kidnap the young girls and beat them into compliance before he sold them the training houses.
I had been hunting him for six weeks up until the day that The Sparrow beat me to it.
It’s clear that I am a fan of The Sparrow’s work, but whoever they may be, they keep getting in the way of my hits. Not all of them, but typically the ones with the more in-demand targets on their heads. Although the targets always end up dead, I’m not the one getting paid for it.
The Archer interference lost me three million dollars. I never got the name of the person who submitted the hit, but something tells me it has to do with the kidnapping of the governor's daughter.
I can feel myself getting closer to finding out who The Sparrow is. They may even work for my very company, but I still have not the slightest clue.
I don’t like not knowing. I am always in control, and I am never wrong. This makes my adoration for The Sparrow turn into a heated itch of hate, and I will not stop until I catch them.
I hunted down most of the clients whose hits were taken care of before I could, to see if they went off to pay someone else to do the dirty work. But still—No results. The Sparrow wasn’t getting paid.
Nobody ever does anything for free… which is what leads me to where I am today.
On the roof of a building on the corner of 125th street, in Northgate, Seattle. I purposely leaked some information on tonight’s hit because he seemed to have similar attributes to the other stolen hits.
Rape charges, domestic violence, and if he doesn’t already sound like a stand-up guy, a child abuse record.
The hit for Peter Michaeles wasn’t set because of his record.
The hit came from a good client of mine who caught Peter cheating him in one of my underground gambling circles.
The price for his blood is high and even if The Sparrow doesn’t show tonight, I’ll get paid well enough.
I watched Peter turn his lights out three hours ago, and I know he is fast asleep. Completely unknowing that he has a predator stalking him like prey. The idiot has his window open, and his curtains drawn and I have a clear view of his sleeping body sprawled across his mattress.
The goal is to lure out The Sparrow, first to see them in action, and second—.
There.
I spot a shadow creep across the dimly lit apartment I’ve been scouting for the last two days.
It has to be The Sparrow. I can’t help but feel completely frustrated with myself for not seeing The Sparrow enter the apartment complex, but there is also excitement roaring in my pulse so loudly I can’t even hear the city.
I press into my earpiece and whisper, “Operation caged bird is a go.”
“Copy.” Dean responds at once and I can hear the concrete echo underneath his boots.
Typically, I like to work alone, at least on targets like Peter. He’s a weak man.Pete would crumble the second I stepped in his direction, but tonight’s hit is special.
Obviously, The Sparrow is skilled, and I would hate to have to kill someone with such talent. So, I brought my brothers along with me. Four stones for one bird.
Dean is one year older than me, he's our muscle. We met in a foster home. Dean has always been big—massive, really—and he’s our muscle, the most physically intimidating out of all of us.
Then there is Brandon, the youngest of the four.
Dean and I met Brandon on the streets after we had been thrown from our halfway houses after we turned eighteen.
Brandon is light and quick on his feet. Incredibly stealthy and quiet—he's our watcher. He is always aware of his surroundings, and nothing goes unnoticed from him. He’s unbelievably good with numbers and all things technology.
And the last is Teddy. He’s six months younger than me and he is…
well unhinged for the lack of a better word.
He’s been through the ringer like the rest of us.
Instead of hiding his insanity, he seems to bathe in it.
Embraces his darkness, and it consumes whatever and whoever he needs it to.
He means well in the way that he will do anything to protect us, his family.
Teddy has a list of crimes that would make fictional characters like Leatherface cringe in fear.
Then me, their leader. The protector and the brain of the operation. I never intended to be the leader, but it came naturally as I’m the most organized, the problem solver.
I make my way off the roof and across the street to the apartment complex.
I spot Teddy making his way up the fire escape that stops just outside of Peter’s open window, and rests under the opening waiting for my signal.
I simply walk into the front of the building and waltz to the apartment numbered B22, whistling a tune that has been stuck in my head for days.
“Can you stop that? You’ve already got it stuck in my head on a loop.” Dean grumbles as he walks behind me. He’s followed by Brandon, whose eyes are cautiously watching every direction with his head on a natural swivel.
“Aren’t sparrows songbirds? Might draw them out.” Brandon snickers as he swings his bat around nonchalantly, now quietly whistling the same tune I was.
I ignore their bickering as I grab the doorknob; it’s unlocked.
Silly bird. This would leave a quick escape, but it also leaves room for getting caught in the act. The Sparrow does not strike me as careless or as one that makes insipid mistakes. So why?
I motion for Dean to take the front, and I follow as Brandon takes the rear.
We slowly file in under complete silence.
Dean has his gun drawn as he clears around corners to shield us from any surprises.
The apartment is dark and filthy. Plenty of leftover take out and beer cans litter everywhere except for the trash can, which seems to already be overflowing.
The stench of stale beer and dust invades my nostrils and reminds me to hold my breath.
The only source of light is coming from a dim streetlamp, breaking in through cracked blinds in the living room.
I continue to watch my step to avoid any pizza boxes or crushed cans.
Dean puts out a hand and points to his ear with two fingers, signaling for us to pause and take a listen.
There is a muffled groan coming from behind a door at the end of a dark narrow hallway.
We all spare a glance at each other before another groan seeps through the closed door, this time it sounds to be more panicked.
Dean waits at the closed door as Brandon, and I continue to search around the labyrinth of trash.
Once we have cleared the entire apartment except for the mystery door, we join Dean.
With a single nod, he slowly turns the doorknob and lets the door slowly swing open.
Luckily there is no creak to the door, so our presence is still unknown.
There is a hooded figure hunched over Peter who is sitting bound in some sort of chair. The figure stands back straight and grabs something out of their back pocket- a thin blade that glints in the dull lighting. When they move slightly to their left, I finally see it.
The chair is no ordinary chair, it’s a garrote vil. Once again, I’m in awe.
The mother fucker built their own garrote Vil and brought it with them.
Peter is gagged with what looks like a dirty sock with duct tape wrapped around his head to keep it in place.
He has been stripped naked with each wrist bound to his thighs by rope, right above the bend of his knee and his palms up as if waiting for a gift.
The collar of the garrote is already tight, so tight I can practically hear him wheezing for breath.
The coward has pathetic tears running down his face and his eyelids are squeezed shut.
The figure leans back over Peter and begins to carve into the palm of his right hand.
Peter's eyes shoot open, and they immediately meet mine.
On cue Peter begins to panic even more, now thrashing in his chair.
Of course, he knows who we are, anyone involved in organized crime knows of us.
And even the law enforcement is aware of our presence, but with quarterly donations they seem to sweep any… operations under the rug.
The sudden increase in panic causes the figure to stop what they are doing, and they stand straight at attention. Agonizingly slow, the figure turns around to face us.
At last, The Sparrow.
The Sparrow is wearing a plain white mask that carries no features. Just two eye holes that are covered in a dark mesh, hiding the shape and color of their eyes. They stare at me for a moment before walking to the back side of the garrote Vil and begin twisting the levers on the back.
Creek, creek.
Peter can no longer wheeze or groan, but the look in his eyes is coated in fear and alarm. The Sparrow pulls off their hood and thick, fire red hair tumbles out across their shoulders and back. With no rush in the world, they remove their mask and then…
“Holy shit, The Sparrow is a chick.” Brandon scoffs.
She gives him a sharp glare before returning my stare. A smirk slowly teases at the corner of her mouth before she says, “Been wondering when I’d run into you, Max Karma.”
Creek. Creek.
Crunch.
And just like that, every ounce of life in Peter’s eyes vanishes.