Trig (Nine and Trig Book 2)

Prologue

My birth name is Trigger Matthews, but my employers call me Trig. I was born in Las Vegas, Nevada. Better known as Sin City. A place where hope comes to die, dreams burn quickly, and addictions such as gambling, drugs, booze, and sex grab you by the balls. Be prepared to be gutted, ripped wide open, and then discarded if you stay too long. This is my warning. Vegas has a heart as black as night, which only beats for your soul. Take a big whiff. Inhale deeply. You smell that stench? That’s the scent of death. If the city doesn’t get you, the fucking heat will. This is the devil’s playground; be careful where you step. It might just be your last.

The Entertainment Capital of the World is enticing. Just look around. It’s a human trap. It’s purposely set up that way. Think about it. Even a moth feels drawn to its death when it looks at a candle flame. The shiny, bright, flashing lights and money on the table are Vegas’s way of luring you in. Put your blinders on. Wear your strongest armor if you must, but do not stay longer than you have to, unless you’re destined to become that goddamned moth. Go vacation somewhere else, a little less sin-ish, because once Lucifer has your perfect little hand in his, that motherfucker doesn’t let go. I know because I’ve been side-stepping that asshole since I was a kid.

Sadly, the story wasn’t the same for my older brother, Hunter. He didn’t side-step anything. He was fearless, bordering reckless. He dove head first into Vegas, fast and hard. He ran with open arms into the false temptations this city offered him, and in the end, he paid a portion of the price with his life. What I didn’t know at the time of his death was that I’d pay the remainder of the balance off by serving with mine. Simply put, I owe for the sins of my brother. Ain’t that some forceful, against my will, type bullshit? It is what it is, though. A good old revolving door of payback. A sick twisted norm for the dirty industry we all love to hate, and because of Hunter’s failure to secure a highly profitable item, I’m part of the madness. Thank you very fucking much, bro.

Nothing about me is the same now. I’ve crossed over, and they made me do it. Fuck my honest character. Fuck my good behavior. Forget all about my morals, because bad men with big guns and no conscience at all don’t care about any of that. These men accept no excuses and make no apologies. Someone has to pay the price when everything goes to shit, and apparently, Hunter’s death wasn’t quite enough to foot the bill. They want the living to suffer, so here I am.

These men consider it street code. A list of unspoken rules and regulations set in place that every living person is supposed to know about. I consider it a hostile takeover of my life, but then again, what do I know. I’m just a puppet on the strings and no one I work for gives a flying fuck about how I feel, because there is always hell to pay and I serve as the final collector.

In case you still don’t get it, I’ll break it down for those living in a delusional bubble of how wonderful life is. In the criminal world, debts are paid off in three ways. Trade, money, or blood. Sometimes all three, even then, tensions stay high, and the wolves of the corrupt life keep hunting. They don’t stop until they get what they want. There are two things that will seduce the fuck out of even the holiest of men. I’m talking about money and power. That’s what all the bloodshed is really about. It’s the real reason Hunter died. Everybody in this type of life wants to excel by moving up the ladder of greed. They need to keep their pockets fat in the process, and to do that, they’ll slice their own mother’s throat if she gets in the way. They use fear and intimidation to cycle in what they call respect. It’s a way of keeping egos in check when they get out of bounds, and when they can’t be, that’s when people die at the hands of an executioner.

That used to be my title. I thought it was over, that I was done when I killed Victor, but no. Here I am, back in this life again, killing, and killing in the name of debt. It’s that same revolving door, and it never stops turning. Body after body and name after name. The game doesn’t end. It never changes. The players just rotate, and the bosses use men like me to handle the wolves. Kill. Kill. Kill. They command, and then I barrel in like the damn plague and take them out. I can’t even remember most of my victim’s names once the job’s complete. I try not to. This isn’t fun for me. I don’t do this because I want to. I do it because I have to. The bosses make threats to men like me to corner us so we do as they like, and we do it. We do it because deep down we know it’s not just an empty threat. It’s a promise. One that will destroy anything and everything we care about in our life.

“Nine’s already known in Vegas. I bet she’d make me a lot of money.”

“Mya sure is a pretty girl. The child trafficking thing is huge nowadays.”

“You know, I could just come into your home in the middle of the night and slice both of their throats just to watch them bleed out.”

I can’t fucking breathe on most days. It’s my own personal hell to keep taking lives so that the people I love can live. Not just that, but to be working under Carmen, the same man who broke me and made me who I am today is sickening. It’s a mental punishment for me that he thoroughly enjoys. I see it written all over his smug face. This fucker has my soul in a mason jar, and every so often, he rattles it to shake things up, and with our history, it doesn’t take much. He tells me it’s payback for my choices but sometimes I think he’s just bored in this industry. Maybe someone should recommend politics to him.

Carmen is a drug lord. The Savior worked for him, and I used to work for The Savior, that was, until I killed him. Carmen’s prime interest is to take the unwilling executioners and make them willing. He’s Satan in the flesh and he’s been on my mental kill list for years. One day I’ll break him the way he broke me, and then I’ll cut him open from mouth to balls to end my misery. That there will be the closing of my wounds, and then I’ll finally bury the one secret I’ve been keeping inside of my head all these years. It’s something that makes my chest tighten, throat close, and head pound. The acid rises from my stomach when terrible thoughts of it begin to spill over, and when they do, I quickly beat them into submission as if my life depended on it.

Calm Down. Relax. It was you or him, Trig.You had no choice. Think of something else.Think of something nice. Think of… her.

It’s like a damn mantra I use when my thoughts spiral out of control. It works. I quickly push Carmen and this secret out of the picture. My brain changes lanes and if I concentrate on Nine, I don’t feel like I’m losing my mind. She has no idea how sane she makes me feel, but we can’t be happy. Not like this. Not with him forcing me to do this again. It’s like every time I see Carmen, I think about that classified information I hide, and every time I see Nine, I think about Carmen coming to kill her, and I so badly wish it was just me and her and my kid living a normal life like it was for a few years. Just a basic-ass boring family doing basic-ass boring shit. I want to give that to her so badly. I want to give it to myself. We deserve it, but Carmen is making happiness and peace impossible. He’s not content with the permanent scars he’s provided me in the past. He’s hungry to deliver more because I’ve messed up his matrix of an operation by killing The Savior, and now he owns me. And if I refuse, my whole family is either his for the taking or target practice.

Fucking dickhead, asshole, piece of shit, motherfucker! I loathe him. I am drowning in ideas to end his existence but it never seems to be the perfect time to take him out without repercussions. I’m afraid one wrong move will end Nine and Mya, and if that happens, I’ll never forgive myself. It would be the end of my existence. So instead, I continue drowning in misery as the clock ticks and the stars refuse to align. Unloading mags and bathing in blood just to go home, switch gears, and put on my perfect father and adoring fiancé face.

My twisted journey up to this very moment can best be described as an organized catastrophe. There has been a lot of tragedy and pain. Definitely more than the average person can bear. This hitman gig alone should be the cake topper of my affliction since it keeps haunting me, but it hasn’t always been my most painful story. There once was, or shall I say, is something much bigger, uglier, and soul-darkening that transpired. An event. A secret. One that I keep in an imaginary box that involves Carmen. To understand how I got here I think it’s time to open the lid and let that bitch breathe. I’m about to air it all out and I hope you can handle it!

The series of events that have royally fucked up my life, featuring “my secret.”

By Trigger Matthews

HERE WE GO!

Everything went to hell because of him, and by “him” I don’t mean my brother Hunter, and I’m not talking about Carmen. There was an initial spark. It was someone else who caused a slow-burning flame within our home that eventually resulted in the burn-it-all-down type destruction of our entire family and is the reason I am where I am.

I can’t bring myself to say his name. It carries a weight too heavy to bear. It makes me physically sick to think about him. Sour memories occasionally tear through me like razor blades on my worst days. The pain and guilt still eat away at me like a group of savage hungry piranhas when I remember all the details. That’s why I convinced myself a long time ago that he caused all of this, and by doing that, I learned how to hate myself just a little less for what I did. It helps to take the sting out of the injury, but not much. No matter how much I want to forget it, I can’t. I can talk myself down all day, but it’s still there. Every look. Every word. Every ounce of pain. It taunts me, and until I can bury his ghost, two things will stay forever etched into my mind. One. The day our father abandoned us. Two. The day I killed him.

I live with it every day. I know how brutal it sounds, but everything is not always what it seems. I can blame my father all I want, because it helps me sleep at night, but it’s not really his fault. It’s a complicated story that needs to be told to understand the chain of un-fucking-believable events that is my life, starting with this whole daddy abandonment issue. So, buckle up. Shits about to get real.

I was raised in an average neighborhood, in an average family. There was nothing dysfunctional about us. We were perfect. The All-American family, hosting cookouts, and planning birthday parties. My parents adored each other, and we children were inseparable. That was… until the shit hit the fan.

My father, Jack is what we’ll call him, suddenly decided he needed space, or a new life, or whatever the fuck it was that made him disappear into thin air. I don’t know what caused him to get up and take off in the middle of the night when he had responsibilities, but he did it. He slipped out like nothing, leaving a wife and three kids all blaming themselves. My mother thought if she were a better wife, he would have stayed. My siblings and I were young at the time. I was five years old. My brother, Hunter, was seven, and my sister, Torrie, was nine. We all thought that if we had behaved better, he would have stayed. If only we had picked up our toys, and answered when he called us, that he’d still be here. The truth was that it was no one’s fault, but at the time, we just couldn’t wrap our heads around it. How does a responsible and caring person like my father just up and leave? A person who tucked us kids in at night and swore on his heart that he loved us more than all the planets in the solar system. I mean, how do you walk away from your wife, the one woman who gave her all to you? I don’t get it.

There’s no closure when someone you love does it. It’s not like before a divorce where the parents fight to the death, and you just know a split is coming, eventually. When someone vanishes, all that’s left is a million questions and no answers. It’s like looking at a puzzle that’s almost complete, but one piece is missing, and no matter how hard you look for that piece, you just know it’s gone. Even so, you still keep looking and hoping that it will pop up, that way, you can feel like the picture is complete. That’s the only way I can describe what our house was going through. It was an everlasting search for our missing piece, my father.

After several months, we learned to accept the fact that he wasn’t coming back. Police couldn’t find him. Banks couldn’t trace him, and my mother stopped waiting by the living room window for his return. She stopped making that extra plate of food at dinnertime, and she stopped crying at night. All the hope she was holding on to, she threw into three large boxes with his clothes and small belongings. She had moved on from sadness and let anger take over. Those boxes filled with all of his things, she tossed them out like trash, and my siblings and I looked out the window as she did it. That was her cutting the rope around her neck. It was the end of her suffering. It was a farewell and fuck-you note to him in her mind for the pain he had caused. We all sat there on the couch that night, torn up inside. I don’t think we children were quite ready to say goodbye, but if it stopped her from drinking herself to sleep every night, then so be it.

It wasn’t easy for any of us, but the real weight of everything fell upon mom’s shoulders. She had kids to feed and bills to pay. We saw her struggle, but being that little we didn’t know what to do. We just followed her lead. She picked up two jobs to keep our house running and my older sister, Torrie, took care of Hunter and me while she did it. When Torrie was tired, Hunter took care of me. The stress wore on everyone. It was a mess that forced me to hate my father, because he made one decision that affected four people’s lives, and he will never know the destruction he caused when he left. He won’t know that my mother suffered from severe depression, and that my sister became resentful. He won’t know that my brother became violently angry, and that I became numb watching everyone else fall apart. It would just be us, four emotional human beings processing abandonment in four completely different ways, and he would never know the pain in our hearts.

It would take several years before we had a normal life again. My mother picked up a new job that paid her triple what she was making working two jobs, and the financial damage caused by my father leaving was lifted. All unpaid bills were now caught up and food was stocked in the fridge regularly. Everyone seemed to be happier. The dark cloud of the past still loomed around us and we all knew it, but now we could breathe a little easier.

My mother eventually saved up money and bought a getaway cabin next to a lake in the mountains of Las Vegas and she took us there mostly in the summers. It was a place where we could create new memories, from our childhood up until our late teen years. We were different now. A family with no worries. I couldn’t name a better time in our life, but then something happened. Reality. It was sure to pull up on time and smack us dead in the face.

Mom was stricken with an illness, not once, but twice. The first time she became ill, doctors diagnosed her with breast cancer, but she fought hard and beat it like a champion. It was a proud moment knowing our mother wasn’t going anywhere. If she could continue to rise from the ashes like she always had, nothing on earth could knock this woman down, not even cancer.

We were wrong. We thought we were in the clear, that she was untouchable, but six years later, she was diagnosed with stage four lung cancer. That’s when devastation hit. Doctors spoke to us as if this was her death sentence. There were many words used such as maybe, possibly, and hopefully when it came to treatment options. Their eyes told me all I needed to know. We were just stalling the inevitable. I think they called it extending her life, but the cost would be insane to do it, and there was no guarantee that any of it would actually work. Days started to pass, and before we knew it, several months had flown by. By this time, Hunter had taken to the streets to make money to pay for her medical bills, Torrie had started dating a sugar daddy to help contribute, and I was the youngest, so my job would be to watch mom. I stayed by her side day in and day out. The treatments didn’t work, but the doctors pressed on about using stronger chemotherapy. She just grew sicker and sicker. I watched her slowly fade away. I no longer saw a champion, but a victim.

It bothered Torrie. The vomiting, hair loss, and weakness. The frail bones lying there. She couldn’t take it anymore. She left, and I mean she literally ran off with her boyfriend, leaving Hunter and I to deal with our dying mom. It just added more stress to our plate. Mom was in and out of the hospital so much at one point they just kept her there. The financial weight now fell on Hunter, and no matter how much money he put up, it was useless. Her health continued to decline. My brother was tired and on the edge of a nervous breakdown. The hospital staff angered him with their bullshit responses. Hunter didn’t understand that money couldn’t buy Mom a cure. Staff could stand there and explain things to him until they were blue in the face. It didn’t stop him from raging out, and one day he completely lost it.

“I’m sorry there is not much more we can do,” the doctor said.

“I told you, if she dies, you die!” Hunter yelled, as he beat the poor guy to the floor. A day that resulted in total chaos. Cops swarmed in and arrested my brother while hospital staff started working on the doctor he almost killed. Two of the most important people in my life were now not around. I felt afraid because everything was now on me. The downward spiral didn’t end there, because after that event, I watched a heartbreaking movie play out in front of me. One in which I already knew the ending.

Positive vibes, good energy, and rays of fucking sunshine were nowhere nearby. My sister was gone. My brother was in jail, and my mom was at death’s door. The day had come. I could feel it in my bones. The air in the room seemed to be a bit colder and the darkness in her eyes told me her time was up.

“Don’t do this to her. Not now,” I pleaded, and looked up to the ceiling. I felt as if God had been punishing this poor woman for most of her life. She didn’t deserve this, and neither did I. Then she spoke. My ears devoured the sound of her broken voice, afraid they’d never hear it again.

“I love you, Trigger. Always and forever.”

“Always and forever, Mom,” I responded, choking back the tears.

It was over just like that. She took her last breath with my big fingers wrapped around her delicate soft hand. Her heart rate monitor flatlined, causing reality to hit me. The woman who gave birth to me would no longer exist, and I couldn’t fucking handle it. Time stopped. The room spun and my chest heaved. It’s as if all the oxygen in the room left right along with her and I sat there unable to steady myself. I could no longer hold back the wave of emotions building up and the tears poured out of my eyes like heavy rain. Every part of me was shaking. There was no going back from this. No fix and repeat button. She was gone and I never felt so alone on this earth.

Nurses gathered around me with apologies my ears couldn’t digest, and looks of sympathy I refused to understand, because no one hurt more than I did at that very moment, so why the fuck were they looking so sad. Empathy didn’t exist to me. Not at that second. No way. Don’t you dare pretend you care about my mother, I wanted to shout. I bet they won’t even remember her name at the end of the day, but I fucking will. Just me. No one else. Look at their pitiful looks. I don’t need this shit. I grabbed my chest as sharp pains hit. They didn’t know about the burning anger that was building inside of me that made me want to flip over hospital beds and burn shit for letting her die. Fuck cancer. Fuck chemo. Fuck radiation. Fuck all the staff here. It wasn’t their mother. What would they care if she lived or died? She was just another body. Just a folder with medical terms in it. I wanted to push them all far away from me. Fuck all of you, my eyes screamed. I was in so much goddamn pain. I just wanted that feeling to end, when in truth, it had just begun.

A very big piece…no, a very big chunk of me died along with Mom, and now I was scrambling my thoughts together as people in white uniforms were speaking to me, and instead of turning this hospital upside down like I wanted to, my mouth deceived me by thanking them. I fucking thanked them for their kind words. I’ve never felt sicker in my life. I stood there acting as if my shit was together, when clearly, I was falling apart at the seams. I didn’t want to be touched, calmed down, or sweet-talked off the ledge. I wanted to let it all out but I couldn’t. Not just yet. Part of me was holding back, fearing what would happen if I lost complete control. I looked down, and at that moment, I found myself gripping the hospital bed bar with all my strength just to keep my knees from buckling. At one point, I gave up. I lost all my strength and I let go and just cried until nothing came out. I cried until the room cleared out and my soul felt empty, and when I was done, the pain moved out and depression settled in. I felt damaged beyond repair, and I couldn’t imagine ever feeling happy again. Not with Mom gone.

Wet eyes, worn heart, and a tight chest, and the worst was yet to come. I abandoned her, left her lifeless body there with those people, those murderers. We trusted them, and they killed her by pumping that poisonous shit into her. Medicine, my ass. I was pissed. It didn’t make it any better to hear one of my mother’s male nurses outside complaining to a coworker about how he missed his lunch break due to some cancer chick dying. I was about to lose it, Hunter style, and smash his skull in. It took a lot of self-control to hold back. What would it accomplish if I killed him? Mom would still be gone. I’d still be in pain, and if I hurt him, I’d be just like Hunter, in prison.

“Enjoy that break, asshole,” I said, intentionally bumping my shoulder into his as I passed by.

I didn’t give him a chance to respond. I didn’t even look back. I just kept walking, forcing myself to take step after step, until nothing stirred within me. As dead as I felt inside, everyone around me was still very much alive. Life made sure I saw it. Life mocked me by showing me a couple in the parking lot filled with love and happiness. They were kissing and holding hands. Me? I was beyond miserable. Sounds of laughter echoed from teenagers walking by, and I just snorted. How dare they laugh at a time like this? Insensitive dicks. I had to remind myself that right now, this ordeal was only happening to me, and that the rest of the world was simply living.

There was very little time to grieve after her death, because just as I was cooling down, things were heating up. They sentenced Hunter to four years in prison for aggravated assault, for almost killing my mother’s main doctor. They labeled him a threat to society as well as himself, but I knew differently. He was in pain. Our mother was terminally ill, and he wasn’t there to say his final goodbye since he was awaiting his trial. He lost it in the courtroom when they read how many years he would serve. That was the last straw for him. He retaliated by making a scene in court. Flipping cops off and cursing out the judge. It didn’t matter to the court that our family had been through hell. Laws were laws, and he broke them, so off he went.

My big brother was now locked up, and our older sister Torrie, who didn’t even show up to see Hunter dragged away, was off experiencing something she never had growing up, which was freedom.

It was now just me, all alone as a young adult, left to make all the funeral arrangements, and it was the last thing I wanted to deal with, but who else was going to do it. Plans for her burial were set. I thought, going forward, I couldn’t feel worse. I had already made it through the hardest part. Her dying. This next step should have been easier, but watching the casket drop tore me to shreds. With no family to lean on, I couldn’t cope in the following days. I became a fucking basket case, ridden with anxiety, feeling like a parked car spinning its wheels out. I turned to liquor to soothe my nerves. Jack Daniels became my best friend. He consoled me like no other, because in reality there was no one else. I had pushed away anyone I even vaguely knew. I shut down completely and locked myself up. Poisoning my body with large amounts of whiskey for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. I barely ate, and slept wherever I passed out. I was on a mission of self-destruction and I didn’t care.

After anxiety made its exit, rage crashed in. I walked around, smashing walls, breaking things, wishing to die. I threw blame as to why I couldn’t manage my damn feelings. I told myself it was my sister’s fault. She was supposed to be here for me. If Hunter could have been by my side, he would have. He was a fighter, a protector, but not Torrie. She was a runner. She was selfish. She never even came to the funeral. I wanted to hate her, but even then, I couldn’t. She was still family, and repeatedly, I had to remind myself we both were dealing with stuff in our own way. Her way just happened to be absent, and in her absence, I suffered.

She still cared for me from afar, at least financially, that is. Like clockwork, every month a yellow envelope filled with a little cash would show up in the mail. It always came stamped from Virginia with no sender information. I knew it was from her. She always said she wanted to settle down in the middle of nowhere and forget that time existed. Virginia seemed like it could be that type of place. I imagine Torrie probably started a new life there, pretending that her mom never died and that one of her brothers wasn’t a fuck up, and that her baby brother was carrying on and doing well. A total state of perfection where her sadness didn’t exist as long as she refused to confront it. I can’t hate her for wanting to block everything out, but I can be angry with her for leaving me alone.

She wasn’t the only one keeping an eye on their baby brother. Hunter had people watching me like a hawk. If he couldn’t be there to help me grow into a man, he was going to make sure he could at least support me. That need to nurture each other came from our mother. It was a golden rule when she was alive. She taught us to look out for each other, and since Torrie gave up, he felt like he failed mom the day of his arrest. He could no longer play the father role for me, which he had been doing for quite a while. He was now involuntarily absent and that urge to fulfill our mother’s wishes was pushing harder than ever. Nothing could stop him from doing all he could for me. He had people on the outside. They were paid thugs sent to come check on me every so often. These men would come to the door, dressed in all black, hand me a wad of cash and then poke me hard in the chest.

“Watch your ass, so I don’t have to. Message from Hunter.”

That poke and one-liner was something my brother did and said to me often, growing up. I welcomed that knock on my door just to hear those words. It didn’t matter that they came from the lips of strangers. Those were his exact words and his actions, and as hard as my chest hurt every time these men did it, it felt like Hunter was here with me, if even for a few seconds, and I couldn’t hold on to the moment long enough.

Those precious passing seconds became long lonely minutes. Those long lonely minutes became haunting hours and those haunting hours turned into shitty-ass normal days. Time would eventually pass to where I didn’t despise every little thing. Misery had overstayed its welcome and I needed depression to pack up and get the fuck out of my life, and it did, just at a slower-than-desired pace.

It was around this period when everything became a blur because I stopped keeping track of time and started living. I’d finally found the fight to put the liquor bottle down, and pick up my fist instead. At nighttime when the world slept, I felt my peace. I’d take all my aggressions out at the gym on the punching bags. Forcefully pounding my hands into something that felt so painfully good. In the daytime, I’d make money by doing photography, something random I used to like to do in high school. Not that I needed the money since Torrie and Hunter kept me comfortable, but I liked the distraction. Something was fascinating about taking pictures of other people just living. You could freeze time and capture something beautiful in all the chaos. The lining of a woman’s back, the bloom of a rose, a flirty crooked smile. These things kept me occupied. I didn’t feel dead inside while boxing or doing photography. I could hide behind gloves and a camera to some extent, but in some parts of the day, I’d just be alone with my brain and its fucking memories.

I needed to fill the time gap with a third hobby. I was afraid if I didn’t, misery would move her bitch-ass back in and ruin the few happy moments I had created. Sex became a viable option. It was playful, and seductive, and made me feel like a God. It was my new addiction, and I couldn’t get enough of it. I’d have a new woman in my bed every night, fucking away the pain. Keeping it from resurfacing. Black, White, Asian, Mexican. It didn’t matter. They all provided a release just as well as the gym did. I felt like a man now. I didn’t need anyone. I was beyond fit, fucked well, and feeling peaceful. I was slowly rebuilding myself, and pieces of me I didn’t know existed started to come to life.

Several years passed and I was now more mature. I finally had my shit together mentally and physically. I had been training hard at the gym and had fought in a few boxing matches for side money. I felt in control and that is all that I really needed, but life, as you know, is unpredictable. The wind shifted and the gentle balance of nature was upset when they released Hunter early from prison for good behavior. He definitely played the system and manipulated his way to freedom. I wanted to be excited, but upon his return, Hunter wasn’t himself. His demeanor was off. The way he carried himself was much more intimidating than before. A darkness followed him and I knew there wasn’t much good left inside of my brother. I feared that he had gotten involved with the worst of the worst while incarcerated. Whatever he was doing was going to kill him one day. All those secret phone calls, locked doors, blood-stained clothes and shoes, and especially the constant late-night runs. He’d refuse to answer my questions about any of it.

“I do this so you can have a better life, Trigger. Don’t ever ask me things you don’t want to know about, and trust me when I say you don’t. Enjoy the cash and shut the fuck up.”

At some point, he’d become paranoid, scared for both of our safety. I remember one night he paced back and forth, ranting that he was tired, that he loved me, and that he was done with this life. It was all bullshit though, because later throughout the years he went in and out of prison for various things and I grew accustomed to it. Every time he was free, he came home and ran right back to the streets doing whatever he did. I tried to convince him of better ways, but he wouldn’t have it. It was too late. He was knee-deep in big money, fast cars, and hot pussy. As much as he may have wanted out at various times, part of that lifestyle had him by the balls and the only exit door available to him was death. He knew it, and sadly, I did too.

Hunter was a criminal. An alpha male. A goddamn silverback gorilla. He rarely showed his softer side because that was dangerous, but he’s human. It was only when he had a little liquor in his system that he became emotional. His brotherly advice would set in and he’d let his guard down. He’d go on and on about not letting life consume you, and to be a good man, unlike him. I wished to God I could save him, but he didn’t want it. He wanted to be the hero and save me. I just didn’t know exactly what it was at the time.

The last memory I have of Hunter is when he stormed into the house one night. I just knew something was off. He jammed his hands in his pants pockets and looked up at me through his eyebrows. He always looked pissed normally but something about his mannerisms were abnormal.

“If I ever catch you doing what I do, I will fucking kill you with my bare hands. I don’t give a shit how old you are. I will fuck you up. Understand?”

He poked me hard in the chest as he said that. I nodded, and then he shoved a bundle of money in my hand, and walked out of my place. That was the last time I saw him. He wasn’t a bad person. I knew who he was, and that hurt me the most. Everything he did, he did for our family, and I suppose that’s why I am the way I am. I respected his hustle, even if I didn’t approve of it. It would be not even twenty-four hours later that I would receive a call that would again rock my world.

“Hello! Is this Trigger Matthews?”

“Yeah. What’s up?” I take a swig of beer, as I pace back and forth with it in hand.

“My name is Haita. I’m a nurse at Lakeview Hospital. We have your brother Hunter here.”

“What do you mean? What happened?” I stop moving. I can feel my entire body lock up.

“You should come down here,” she replies softly.

“I’m not going anywhere. What the fuck happened?”

My jaw is tight. My hand grips the bottle harder than I want to.

She doesn’t immediately respond. The silence drills into me and I can’t bear it.

“Is he…is he okay? Is he alive?”

I clench my teeth, while some small fraction inside of me clings to an ounce of hope. She still hasn’t said a single word.

“I’m sorry. He didn’t make it. He arrived here—”

I can’t even really understand the rest of what she says. My stomach drops. My heart sinks. The bottle in my hand falls, and just like a revolving door, the pain hits again. Tender wounds from my father leaving, and my mother dying, opened wide up, making room for yet another loss, Hunter. Tragedy after tragedy left me feeling like this joint called earth was a place I no longer wanted to be living in. I was ready to call it quits. Hunter was dead and I wanted to be in his shoes, because I didn’t want to bury another fucking family member.

I spent the next morning praying to God to take me, too. I’d had enough. Once again, I put on my armor of strength and mustered barely enough to plan his burial. When it was time, Torrie came for Hunter”s funeral. I was shocked. I had no idea how to notify her of his passing and yet she was here. It told me she had connections in this area. Someone was updating her, but who? It didn’t really matter. She didn’t stay long. It’s almost as if she couldn’t bear to stand in her feelings.

Before she ran off again, we had a quick moment. She stood there in her black dress, sun-kissed hair swept up with tears running down her cheek. Neither of us knew what to say. So much time had passed. We didn’t have to talk though; it was all in the eyes. Both of us were painfully standing there like two empty vessels stuck in a stare-off. She broke the silence by saying how much I looked like Mom, which seemed to stir her up even more. She grabbed me, roughly pulled me in and kissed me on the cheek and then she pulled away, apologizing a million times. My hand reached out for hers, but instead of grabbing it, she pulled away, sobbing, and without notice, she turned, quickly running off until she vanished into the fog. I didn’t know how to cope with anything, so I let her go. I let her run, knowing she was the only thing I had left in this Godforsaken place and I let her do it because she wanted to. I couldn’t fucking stop her. I couldn’t make her stay here and crumble with me.

Be free, caged bird. Be free. One of us needs to be.

The next evening, I found myself at the gym, punching bags with no gloves on until my fists went numb, and my knuckles bled. I collapsed on the mat, sweaty and tired with blood dripping down my fingertips. Pissed off and running on empty is about where I was emotionally.

“You look like your brother,” a man’s voice boomed above me.

“And you are?” I asked; shooting up from the floor while mad-dogging him and the two large men that stood behind him.

“On the streets, they call me The Savior, but you can call me Boss.” He smiled.

“Get the fuck outta here, man. This is not the time for whatever this is.”

I turned to the bags, punching hard, ignoring the asshole in the clean black suit.

“You owe me, and you will work off your brother’s debt or your sister Torrie will die. All I need to do is make one phone call, and just like that, she’s gone. It’s your choice, Trig.”

The mention of my sister jolted me. The fact that he knew my name was unsettling. This man called The Savior then shoved a picture of Torrie and her happy little family in my face. I didn’t even know she had kids. Married maybe, but kids? Holy Shit! I stopped punching as I stared at it and took it all in. What in the actual fuck was happening?

I was petrified at first. This strange man and his two monstrous-sized, armed bodyguards stood before me with a deadly offer. One that would have resulted in killing my sister should I have refused. I was still grieving, just barely burying my dead brother Hunter not but twenty-four hours prior, and now I have to work off the debt caused by his death.

“Why me?”

“Who else would be filled with enough anger to wipe out a country? He who still walks the earth carrying the pain of his murdered brother. Just think of it as revenge, a personal payback for both of us. The man you will be seeking has disrespected me, stolen my drugs, and killed your brother, who happened to be one of my top sellers. I’m offering you a gift, boy. I suggest you take it.” The Savior grinned.

“And what’s the gift?”

“A license to kill.”

“You want me to work for you as a murderer?” I question.

He nods just once. “Now take the gift or I”ll make the call!”

I felt resentment toward Hunter for putting Torrie and me in this situation. I felt angry that my brother was dead. I felt livid that this criminal was standing in front of me making serious threats, and my only option was to say yes, I’d kill for him. Who the fuck was this guy, strolling up in my gym, getting in my face, and making me choose to be something I clearly wasn’t, something I never thought I’d ever be. The darkest of all professions. A killer.

It wasn’t easy to answer him, but I’d do anything to keep my sister Torrie safe. I gritted my teeth and nodded at the man with the scar on his face. It made me sick to see the look of satisfaction he wore so proudly in his dark eyes. There would be nothing satisfying about becoming a murderer. Just the idea of playing God and taking someone’s life made my stomach turn. He described this as if it was temporary. I knew deep in my heart that once I started doing this, I wouldn’t be able to quit. They wouldn’t let me. They would own me. You don’t just walk away from that life, not after what they make you do. You want out? Then you die right along with all the secrets you hold.

***

Displeased by my first attempt to kill, The Savior punished me by delivering me to his boss Carmen. He’s the cruelest man alive, a sadist, and his house of torture would be just the thing I needed according to good old scar face. He laughed and mumbled something to me about how I’d be a changed man when I came out. At that moment, I didn’t know what he meant, but the second I was dragged into that house, and those front doors slammed closed, I knew I was there to be broken, and they’d not only break me but shatter me into a million fucking pieces.

It took but a mere five days. Five days of torture, humiliation, and a psychotic meltdown made me submit to be a darker version of myself.

Day 1: Two unknown men strip me naked, chain me up by my arms, and take turns beating and whipping me repeatedly until I pass out. Later, they drag me into a cold, dark, cellar, and throw me on an old, ripped, dusty bed. I’m weak, shaking, still naked, and profusely bleeding. The mattress coils push against the wounds on my skin and it pains me to breathe. My face is wet and I don’t even know if its blood, sweat, or tears. My vision is blurred, my skin is on fire and my throat feels dry. I am almost wishing to die so that this torture is over. My body decides it’s had enough, and to help me survive this trauma, it takes over, shuts itself down, and I black out again.

Day 2: I wake, lying on the mattress, arms stretched over my head, tied to the wall behind the bed while a woman I don’t know gives me head. She laughs as I become more aware and then she introduces herself as Natasha. Carmen’s eldest daughter. If Satan had a daughter, Natasha would be it, hands down. Fucking psycho. She then forces herself on me and begins to slap, punch, and choke me during sex. Somewhere in the process, I lose consciousness. When I wake, she’s gone.

Day 3: I’m dehydrated and weak. Two men drag me naked to another room, push me in, and close the door. A gun rests on one table and a knife on another. In the corner, another dirty, naked, older man with a beard stands shaking, wide-eyed. He’s clearly been beaten for days on end as well. I side-eye him quickly and then I stumble to the door, attempting to open it, but it’s locked. I think we both know why we’re here and only one of us is leaving this room. Bright lights flash above us and a loud bell sounds. Both of us are weak, and adrenaline takes over, giving us the strength to do this. The man goes for the knife, and I rush for the gun. He comes plunging toward me, causing me to drop the gun. I grab his forearm as the knife almost hits my face. He slams me up against the wall and then we wrestle back and forth. The man is like a rabid dog. He’s growling and air-biting at me. His saliva hits my face as I fight through the chaos. I plunge my finger into his eye to alleviate the hold he has on me. He lets up just long enough and I gain control. It doesn’t take long to get the knife from him and then within seconds I’ve stabbed him, not once, but multiple times until he no longer moves. There is blood everywhere, and I’m breathing hard.

“Nothing like a little family trouble to get a party started, right?” The voice rang through the speakers in the ceiling.

At first, I didn’t understand what that meant. I looked closer at the man lying on the floor. There were similarities that I couldn’t quite grasp, or maybe I just wasn’t mentally prepared to accept what I was seeing. My brain refused.

“Meet your father, Trig.”

I crouch down and with shaky hands quickly wipe the blood from the man’s face. My brain revs up and every feature on his face downloads like fucking software and I can see it now. He looks exactly like Hunter. From his strong jawline to his lips to his nose. It sinks in that I have indeed just killed my father. I immediately start to justify my actions. I hadn’t seen this man since I was little. It was dim in this room. He came after me. All of these thoughts run through my head as I look at him. I’m shaking profusely, and just when I feel like my knees may buckle, I feel something jabbed into my neck and then it’s lights out again for me.

Day 4: Today they’ve tied me to a chair and forced me to watch what happened yesterday on a monitor. It replays constantly. It doesn’t matter if I close my eyes; it runs through my head nonstop. Natasha comes in and delivers her punishment every few hours. She hates that I don’t bow down to her, so she increases the pain level each time. She slaps me, hits me with pipes, and chokes me. She pokes me with sharp objects. She asks me how killing my father feels. I continue to ignore her, which just makes her more pissed. I’m now numb to her, and oddly, the abuse as well. Today they’ve given me a little water, but no food. At this point, I’m praying it’s poison. I’m ready to die anyway. Lord, take me already. Take me the fuck out of here.

Day 5: Their behavior is different today. I’m finally fed a decent meal and given clothes to wear like a human being. They’ve untied me and are walking me back to what looks like a familiar room. Once inside, my chest feels heavy. It’s where I killed my father. The setup is a little different this time. I’m asked to sit at a table. In front of me, there are two wine glasses.

“One of these glasses has poison in it and one does not. Choose wisely,” a voice rings through the speakers.

It’s almost like he read my mind on the whole poison moment I had yesterday in a state of weakness, but today I’m not the same person I was then. I look at both glasses and then groan in disbelief. I lift one cup and smell it, and then the other. I can’t tell the difference, nor does the color of one look off. I’m exhausted and I refuse to play their games. I take both cups and push them off the table. Two men rush in and beat the hell out of me. They are wailing on my ass. I’m burning with rage and even though everything hurts, I decide that if I’m going to die, I’m taking these two big fuckers with me. Maybe it’s the extra energy from finally getting some food in me, but I fight back. I’m giving it my all. I break one man’s neck and then I turn to the other guy and smash his skull against the wall.

“You wanted a monster. Here I am, bitch. Fuck you, and fuck your crazy-ass daughter and fuck these dead motherfuckers right here. Fuck this whole place. Imma burn it all down. You better kill me! Kill me!” I scream at the glass. At this point, I have lost my shit. “Is this what you want? You like this? Look at me, covered in the blood of your men. They ain’t shit. Send in more. Send in the whole fucking squad.” I laugh like a madman, smearing my bloody hands down my face and then licking my thumb. I’m now pounding on the glass like a pissed-off gorilla decorating that bitch with the blood of my enemies.

“Congratulations, Trig. You can leave now,” the voice says.

The sound of the door unlocks and then it automatically opens, and I’m forced to slow my adrenaline down, but I can’t fully. I have no idea what waits for me outside. I cautiously move through the room and then into a weird main hall that splits into different directions. The house is dead quiet except for the sound of my bloody shoes squeaking against the clean glossy white floor. I spot what looks like an entry door down one hall and decide to make a run for it. With all the strength and hope I have left, I run as hard as I can. I fling it open, and there I’m greeted by The Savior. I groan at the sight of him. Through the sunlight, I see the end of a gun pointed at me. I fall exhausted at his feet, broken and stripped of all fear.

“Would you like to go back in there, Trig?” he asks.

I shake my head, place my bloody hands up in a surrendering way, and with the next ten words, I give up my free will.

“Just tell me what to do, and I’ll do it.”

I soon after became The Savior’s favorite hitman. To my surprise, I was comfortable and good at killing. I was cold, hard, concrete inside now. The blood no longer bothered me. The thrashing and screams no longer affected me. I was a killing machine, taking out all the people who stood in my boss’s way. I was ruthless. I knew in the back of my mind that there was only one contract I needed to close that would make things better. Victor’s. I’d make his death the worst. I’d make him suffer for what he did to Hunter. A slow, painful death. I’d bathe in his blood and then one day I’d kill The Savior and Carmen, but until then, I’d do what was expected of me.

Then, like magic, life handed me Victor on a platter, but life did it with a twist. I had a good lead on my brother’s killer. He was meeting up with some hooker at a hotel. He was going in by himself, and that was all I needed. I planned how I would kill him, from the house to the hotel, and just when I stepped into the elevator, I saw her. The hooker from the surveillance pictures I found at one of Victor’s homes. I didn’t let her beauty mess with my head. I ignored her when she spoke to me. I was on a mission, and chances were that she would die along with him.

It wasn’t until I was in the room with them both that I felt her pain. I heard her muffled screams. He said the words I own you to her, and it reminded me of how I felt. Fucking owned. It took everything I had to try to push back my thoughts and focus on completing this kill. I didn’t know this broad, but I couldn’t stop the words “I own you” that kept playing in my head. The crying became louder, and just as I turned the corner, I watched as he jammed a knife into her side. I didn’t think at all. I just reacted by delivering one shot to the back of his head.

I had his death planned differently, with a touch of more suffering, and for a split second, I regretted doing it until I saw her bleeding out. It was then that I convinced myself that I had only saved her to get information. I pulled her up from the bed, and even in her state of confusion with her mumbling words, the sadness in her eyes told me she was in more pain than I was. With her arms barely holding on to me, she asked if she was going to die, and just as I responded, she collapsed. She doesn’t know how fast I worked to stop her bleeding. How I held her in my arms and waited for my boy Bones to get there. “Just kill me, take away the pain,” she mumbled, eyes closed.

I felt her words down to my core, and she’d repeat those same words all night, and me, I’d feel them each time as if it was the first time she said them. She was the prettiest dying creature I had ever seen. I connected to the pain. My heart felt something it hadn’t felt in a while. She was mine and she didn’t even know it. Hell, I didn’t even know it, but I felt it.

It was from that day forward that this complete stranger named Nine would give me a new purpose in life. I’d protect her at all costs.