DEIMOS:"You’ve always wanted to go deeper, haven't you? You want to know the 'why,' not just the 'how.' You want justice, but you're trapped in a system that only wants the final paperwork. With me, you aren't just a pathologist. You’re the one who decides who lives and who pays. You can be the storm, Mali, or you can keep being the girl who hides in the dark waiting for the next Jake to find her."
The silence on the line is heavy. He’s peeling me back, layer by layer, exposing the part of me I thought I had buried under years of professional detachment.
DEIMOS:"Tomorrow night isn't just about my mission. It’s about yours. I’m giving you the keys to the kingdom you’ve been peering into from the outside. Put on the dress. Be ready at eight. And Madeline... I’ll know if you’re carrying a scalpel. I suggest you bring your brain instead. Or both. But your knowledge is a much more dangerous weapon."
The line clicks dead.
I stand in the center of my bedroom, the midnight blue dress draped over the bed like a fallen sky. My anger is still there, but it’s being crowded out by something else. A terrifying, exhilarating spark of recognition.
He didn't just choose me because I was there. He chose me because he knows I’m just as hungry for the truth as he is for blood.
CHAPTER 16 - Deimos
The blue glow from the bank of monitors reflects in the dark lenses of my eyes, the only light in a room that smells of cold espresso and gun oil.
I lean back in the leather chair, my fingers steepled beneath my chin. On the center screen, the feed from her bedroom is crystal clear. High-definition. Unforgiving.
I watch the exact moment the line clicks dead.
Madeline doesn't move. She stands in the center of the room, the phone still gripped in her hand like a weapon she doesn't know how to fire yet.
She’s completely naked, her pale skin contrasting sharply against the dim light of her apartment. From this angle, I can see the marks I left on her, the blooming violets on her collarbone, the red bruise of my thumb on her hip. They are messy. They are visceral. They are my signature on a canvas that was far too clean.
I trace the line of her spine with my eyes, watching the uneven rise and fall of her shoulders as she breathes. She’s furious. I can see the tension in the tendons of her neck, the way her jaw is locked tight. But beneath the fury, there’s a spark. I saw it in the morgue when she looked at the blood on my neck, and I see it now as she stares at the dress on the bed.
"Don't lie to yourself, little storm," I murmur to the empty room, my voice a low rasp that barely disturbs the silence.
"You don't want safety. You want the truth. And the truth is always covered in blood."
She reaches out, her fingers trembling slightly as they brush the midnight-blue silk. She thinks she’s a victim of a kidnapping, a hostage to my whims. She still doesn't realize that I’m not just dragging her into my world, I’m letting her out of her own. She’sspent years studying the dead, looking for answers the living were too afraid to give her.
I watch her hand slide over the low-cut back of the gown. She’s imagining herself in it. She’s imagining the weight of the glitter, the way the net will feel against her skin. She’s imagining standing next to me.
I shift my gaze to the secondary monitor. A live feed of the deli three blocks away.
Lucy is there, sitting in her ambulance, oblivious to the fact that her life is currently a bargaining chip in a game of gods and monsters. I have no intention of killing the girl, not yet. Madeline needs an anchor to the world she’s leaving behind, something to make the fall feel real.
On the main screen, Madeline finally moves. She sits on the edge of the bed, her head bowing, her long hair shielding her face from the camera.
I reach out and touch the screen, my fingertip resting right over the pulse point in her neck. I can almost feel the frantic rhythm of her heart through the glass.
"Be ready, Madeline," I whisper, a dark smile tugging at the corner of my mouth.
"Show them the storm I’ve unleashed. And by the time the sun rises on Sunday, you’ll realize that the only person you should have been afraid of... was the woman you saw in the mirror."
I kill the feed. The room plunges into absolute darkness.
I have three more heads to collect before eight o'clock tomorrow.
I stand, my joints popping in the silence. My night is far from over. Before I can put on a suit and play the part of a gentleman, I have three contracts to close. Three lives purchased by men with deep pockets and shallow consciences. I don't care about the why, I only care about the how.
I check the encrypted files on my side monitor one last time. Three targets. Three men. One night. I don't kill women; mostly because of my mother. But men? Men are the architects of their own destruction.
1. Arthur Vance:A corporate whistleblower who thought he could hide in a mid-range motel on the outskirts. My client wants him silenced before he reaches the DA’s office at dawn. No mess, no struggle. Just a silent needle to the heart while he dreams of being a hero.
2. Ivan Volkov:A high-end thief who stole the wrong encrypted drive from a tech mogul. He’s clever, currently moving through the crowded subway stations to lose any tail. He won't see me coming. A quick "shove" in the rush of the midnight train, and the drive will be back in my client's hands by 4:00 AM.
3. The Witness:A man in protective custody in a "safe house" that wasn't safe enough. He saw a murder he wasn't supposed to. My job is to make sure he never testifies. This one requires a long-range approach. One bullet, one breath, from three blocks away.
