Chapter 28
Chapter Twenty-Eight
CILLIAN
As I shower, I whistle a bawdy Irish ditty that never fails to make Isla giggle. I’m on my way to see her, even though it isn’t technically my shift.
I don’t care, though; I don’t even care if Liam boxes my ears for it.
Isla’s worth it.
Being around her makes me feel lighter than I ever have, and I’m not about to give that up just because Liam can’t control his emotions.
He’s lying to himself about how he feels about her, and it’s so obvious it almost hurts.
But just because he feels the need to lie about how he feels, doesn’t mean I have to.
As I get out of the shower, my phone rings, buzzing along the sink’s edge. I grab it on the third ring, Ronan’s name flashing on the screen.
My heart squeezes in my chest.
Ronan rarely calls unless he has a job for me, and today I really wish I didn’t have a job to do.
Ever since I saw Maggie dead, looking just enough like Isla to rattle me, all I’ve wanted to do is spend time with Isla. Which, honestly, isn’t all that different from normal.
I’ve accepted I’m in love with her. I’m not obvious about it like Dare or hiding it like Liam, just quietly accepting how I feel.
I want her to be mine, and I hope that one day, she’ll choose me.
“Cill,” Ronan barks, bringing me back to reality.
“Aye?” I’m conditioned to answer when he calls, and I’m not sure I’ll ever shake it.
“Got a job for you. I’ll text you the details.”
“Aye.” My voice is flat now, dead, because I know whatever job it is, it’ll end up with more notches on my kill count. The little that might be left of my soul will take another hit.
Do I still have a soul? Will Isla loving me help me get some of it back?
No, I refuse to think about something as good as Isla when I have to become a monster.
Liam usually calls me when he knows his father has a job coming, and I haven’t heard from him. Does he know about this job, whatever it is?
There are a few jobs I do for Ronan that Liam doesn’t always know about—mostly cracking down on those who haven’t paid us for protection or killing a target that Liam wouldn’t sanction.
But ever since Ronan has been ill, every decision has gone through Liam.
My phone buzzes to life in my hand, and I look down at it to a text message from Ronan, with an address and a target’s name.
I don’t know the name. I don’t know why Ronan wants me to take him out.
Fuck. Now what? Do I just do it, or should I call Liam?
Ronan is not himself most of the time, so can I really take the risk of taking down an innocent target? Or at least as someone in the life can be.
It’s hard. I’ve spent my whole life as Ronan’s weapon. Soulless, unfeeling, ruthless. And even though I know he’s losing his mind and can't be trusted, I am like a distorted version of Pavlov’s dog. Ronan whistles, and I kill.
But my loyalty to Liam is just as strong, so I sigh, putting on my clothes before calling him.
He doesn’t answer, so I call again.
He snaps up the phone on the fourth ring. “What?”
“Your da wants me to do a job.”
“What kind of job?”
“My kind. Texting you the details, now.”
“Thomas, aye? I’ve heard the name. I’ll make some calls and text you back. Stay put for now.”
I pace around the house, hoping against hope Liam says to lay low. I can go and visit Isla, feel like the man I could have been instead of the monster I’ve become.
It’s like taking in a breath of fresh mountain air every time I see her.
Then Liam’s text comes through.
Do it. It’s bad. Children.
The wrong and unpleasant kind of shiver runs through me.
Cormac employs the worst of the worst because he wants men without honor, men without conscience. He wants them to do all the awful things he asks without batting an eye. Recently, Cormac has gotten into sex trafficking, but even he is against it being children.
I can only assume this Thomas isn't so discerning.
I’m still annoyed about the job, but at least it’s one I won’t mind doing. Might actually enjoy it, if I'm honest with myself.
Losing a piece of my soul is worth it when it allows me to deal with scumbags like this.
I place my gun in the sheath at the small of my back, hidden under my shirt. I stick a knife in my front pocket, just in case. You never know when someone will get close enough to slide a blade between your ribs.
I’m not nearly as good with knives as Dare is, but years of underground fighting have calloused my knuckles, made me a pretty hard hitter. I can hold my own in hand-to-hand, and use a blade if I have to.
Guns are just... easier. Less intense. Faster. Like the kill is removed, somehow, less personal. I’ve had my fair share of close-contact kills, but when I use bullets, the kill is cleaner.
However, since this fucker ruined my day, and considering his line of business, I might make an exception for him.
I park half a mile away from the location, walking casually up the street with my hands in my pockets. Since I don’t want anyone to notice that I’m on a mission, I keep my pace casual and approach the building, a small apartment complex.
The place is crumbling everywhere, leaks in the ceiling, peeling wallpaper, sticky floors.
I’m looking for 2B, and I find it on the second floor.
Whatever Cormac is paying him, it’s clearly not enough.
Maybe this guy doesn’t deal in kids; maybe he gets his kicks out of them.
Either way, I want to make it hurt.
I crack my knuckles as I press my back flush against the wall next to the door.
Reaching over, I knock three times, pause, and then two more times. It usually works if someone is hiding out.
Sure enough, the door opens, and I strike, grabbing him around the throat with one hand and forcing him back into the house.
He chokes, and I kick the door shut with my foot.
I could have just as easily popped him in the head with my gun and silencer, but this feels better.
This is what he deserves.
He’s a sallow thing, about half my size, wide, watery blue eyes looking up at me, pleading. “Please. I have a wife and kids.”
“Doesn’t look like it. And even if you do, they’re better off without you.”
“I can show you pictures of my kids, please—”
I squeeze my hand around his throat, cutting off his words and his air supply.
Pressing my nose to his, I hiss, “I don't care to see any pictures of kids you've got to show me, pervert.”
I drop my hand, and he clutches at his throat, sucking in air.
“God,” he manages in a choked whisper.
“I don’t think he listens to sick fucks like you.”
I reach into my pocket, and the blade flashes out.
His eyes widen at the gleam in the blade.
I could slash his throat, could watch as blood trickled down his throat, and he gurgled and slumped over.
He’d twitch as he bled out, and I’d stand there and watch him, waiting for it to be over.
But I want him to learn a lesson that will stick for his following lifetimes. And for that, he needs to be afraid. Very afraid.
Taking a half-broken lamp that’s next to the mattress serving as his bed, I drag him to a chair. I’ll use the cord to dog-tie him sitting down.
He jerks, and tries to escape once, so the crunching sound as my hand connects hard to his nose is doubly satisfying.
He whines as tears and blood stream down his face.
“Now, stay still, or this will be even worse. And trust me, my tamer version is bad enough, you do not want to piss me off more.”
He cowers, and I finish tying him up.
When I’m done, I stand up, hands on my hips, and grin at him. “Now, ready to have some fun?”
He screams.
I look around and find some dirty boxer shorts lying around.
So happy I brought some gloves with me.
I take a pair of nitrile gloves from my pocket and put them on. Then I pick a pair of his dirty boxers off the floor and stuff them in his mouth.
“There, so much better, don’t you think?”
My knife in hand, I carve the side of his face with a P. Throughout history, criminals used to be marked with the initials of their crimes, like D for deserter or A for adulterers. P for pedophile seems more than fit here.
He is squirming and screaming, but it’s no use.
On the other side of his face, I carve a dick. Petty, but fit, since he is one.
Once that is done, I break his fingers one by one before removing each hand from his body with a rusty knife I get from the kitchen. After all, the point is to make it hurt, not make it easy and clean for him.
He almost passes out, but I slap him, waking him up.
“No, no. None of that. I want you to feel every single slice and carve I offer, same as your victims were forced to endure every moment with you.”
I know he won’t last long now, so it is time for the coup de grace.
I shake my head and take a deep breath. “Trust me, this will be worse for me than it will for you. Now try to stand still, I don’t want to risk catching anything.”
He frowns, but as my knife slices the front of his pants, his eyes widen, and his muffled screams grow hysterical.
“Why are you being like that? I know you like using this on kids.”
The thing is not huge, but it is not average size either. A little below, I’d say. And that is a little saving grace.
I really hate having to touch this guy, but it is for a good cause. He’ll have a taste of his own medicine.
Reaching out for his dick, I use my sharpest knife and slash it from his body in one go.
He is screaming and thrashing, but I feel nothing for him. I do feel like I’m vindicating every one of his victims when I remove the dirty boxer shorts from his mouth and shove his dick inside it, followed by the boxer shorts again so he can’t spit it out.
If the kids never had a chance, neither will he.
“You’re lucky I don’t have the patience today, or I’d find the biggest fire extinguisher around and use it on you, just so you could have a real taste of your own medicine.”
His head is shaking left to right, his face is ashen-white, and as I wash my hands and clean my tools and the scene, removing every evidence of my presence here, he takes his last breath.
Good, one less piece of trash walking around.
On the walk back to my car, I’m torn because as much as I want to see Isla, what I just did… The darkness that consumed me should be nowhere near her.
But then again, maybe this is the time I should see her most—when there’s blood on my hands. This should be a reminder to me that she’ll never choose me. And a reminder to her of the monster within.
Because I don’t feel even the slightest amount of guilt over killing James Thomas.
But doesn’t she deserve more than a monster like me?