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She’s just another woman that’s walked these floors. I pity her and the fact that this is the best thing she’ll ever do. But pity or not, I’m grateful that she’s going to aid me in getting justice for my father.
Lord Sterling sets himself up on Elizabeth’s other side. Lining up everything he needs on a silver tray, he waits until I’m done before he numbs the area behind her ear with local anaesthetic. Once he’s given it time to take hold, he makes a small incision and inserts a tracking chip. His celebrated surgeon hands work swiftly, gluing the incision back together and applying some butterfly strips to reinforce the hold.
“We still have the mistress problem to think about,” Julian tells me as I prepare to leave.
“I thought about it,” I reply. “And I’m dealing with it.”
I’ve gotten my hands dirty and bloody many times before. Enough that the resolution to our problem doesn’t faze me. Chapman had his people murder my father and his driver. He took something I loved from me, and now, I’m going to take everything from him. Starting with Martha Tabram, his mistress.
* * *
The night is dark and long. With the muggy August air, there’s no breeze to blow the stench of the gutters away. Everything is so stagnant here, including time.
“Come on,” I mutter at my watch as the seconds tick past slower than erosion.
My grip on the flick knife tightens as I continue etching the tip along the pearlescent face of the button in my hand. W. For wolves and the war that we’re about to wage on the Coster Kings and on the United Republic.
There’s a rattle of shutters as the rollers of the Victorian warehouse entrance open. Pocketing the button and the flick knife into the front pocket of my hoodie, I take out my Glock and screw on the suppressor while watching for the mistress’ guards. I’ve watched them patrol this place for the past few nights.
Dumb and fucking Dumber don’t know the first thing about protecting themselves, let alone a charge. They spend more time on their phones and smoking than they do looking out for danger.
Fucking imbeciles.
They’re first to come out, cigarettes lit and making enough noise that when I follow the shadow of the commercial bins to the back of Chapman’s pub, they can’t hear the scuff of my rubber soles on the loose gravel.
“I need a piss,” he tells his buddy, checking his watch like I’ve checked mine the past three hours while I waited for them to surface from their hole.
“Hurry up,” the other groans. “I need to go too before the delivery gets here.”
Fuck, I need to make this quick. I breathe out the adrenaline-spiked air filling my lungs with every deep hammer of my pulse. It’s not my first rodeo. This is what I do. Still, there’s always that last pull of morality before I make my move. The point of no return.
Elbowing the side of the large bin, I watch Chapman’s goon approach to inspect the noise. As I’m about to pull the trigger on him, the alarm of their car suddenly blares, and he turns his back to me.
A cat. The scoff pushes out of me, propelling me forward as I slam the grip of my sidearm into the base of his skull. There’s barely a sound as he collapses down on himself into the damp ground.
The night is quiet.
The dark is calm.
There’s peace in the stillness around me. For a brief second, at least. That first hit is the most cathartic. It releases the pent-up tension, opening the cage doors for the monster to come out and play. It is freedom.
Stepping over his listless form, I slip the gun back into the holster beneath my hoodie and follow the shadowed path to the warehouse.
There she stands. The perfect prey. The first piece of my retribution. A harlot that sells innocent girls to the highest bidder.
Mercy, the voice in my head reminds me of the syringe in my pocket. I could numb her last moment on this earth. It would make it easier for me, but easy seems a cop-out. There’s no reward in easy, and my father certainly didn’t get it that way either. And neither will she.
Gripping the knife in my hand, I flick the blade out, wrapping my arm around her mouth so that her scream is muffled, and she falls back into me as I drive the blade into her side. The smothered screams gurgle as her lungs fill with blood, and I drag her back into the shadows.
Hot blood coats my hand before the metallic-tinged air fills my lungs. And I see him then—my father.
Mercy, the voice says again. Mercy.
It was the one thing he hammered into me. No matter how brutal his lesson was, mercy was somehow his form of redemption. I don’t know about redemption, but retribution is the one thing I’m certain of as I drive the knife again and again into the strumpet’s flesh. With one last slash, I slit her throat, allowing her body to hang long enough that its weight almost tears through to her spine.
There’s only one thing left when she’s limp. Pulling the button from my pocket, I shove it into her mouth. My pulse is roaring. My blood is boiling. My entire being is vibrating as I watch her body drop to the ground. Life is hanging on by a fraying thread as I walk away.
One down…
