“That’s exactly what I needed to hear.” The trigger sentence Dakota had been waiting to utter.
Stryker and Rys pumped each bodyguard with five bullets made quiet by silencers. Still, the popping sound shattered the otherwise quiet night. One body, then the second, collapsed on the ground.
“What the––” Meyers blurted.
As Dakota pushed out of the chair, he wrapped his gloved hand around Meyers’s neck, yanked him out of the chair, and shoved him against the wall. “Do you like killing innocents?” he growled.
“What the fuck,” Meyers gasped. “Who the hell are you?”
“Do you feel powerful, godlike even, when you watch the light fade from their terrified, innocent eyes?”
“I…” Meyers squeezed out.
“I might go to hell for this, but I own what I’m about to do. Someone has got to fucking stop you.”
In one quick, skilled move, Dakota spun him around, put him in a choke hold, and snapped his neck. Meyers dropped to the floor. Stryker entered and shot Meyers in the forehead and the chest. Dakota shoved the photo of Beth into his pocket. Then, he and Stryker pulled out microfiber cloths and, with efficient precision, wiped down the rusted, metal furniture while Meyers bled out.
Careful not to step in the expanding pool of blood, Dakota threw the headlamp into the bag before turning back to Meyers. Seeing his lifeless body brought Dakota no joy.
He and Stryker exited through the nearby fire door. After Dakota shut it, he, Stryker, and Rys jogged to the front of the building, picked up Quincy, and continued on to the waiting vehicle.
A block away, Marcus flashed the headlights, once.
Safe to approach and enter.
“I’m making the call.” Dakota pulled the burner from his backpack and dialed.
“Good evening, FBI tip line,” said the operator. “With whom am I speaking?”
“Karen Barberry, Missy Lynn James, Mary Watson, Becky Martin, Flo Patricks.” Dakota spoke in a raspy growl.
“Sir, what can I help you with?”
“These victims were innocent, young women killed by Ralph Meyers, AKA, Mr. Ralphy. His killing spree spans decades and he admitted to murdering over sixty women. I’m calling to report he’s dead. His body can be found in the abandoned warehouse on Fleeger Street, in southeast Balmer.”
He said “Balmer” as a native Baltimorean would.
“Sir, we follow-up on every credible lead. How do you know his body is there?”
Dakota disconnected.
Because I fucking put him there.
Rage billowed up and he ripped the flip phone in two. With each death, the blood on his hands grew. Sammy had already lost one parent. If Dakota got killed or ended up in prison, she’d lose him, too.
As soon as the men piled into the vehicle, Marcus pulled onto the quiet street. After a few blocks, he stopped at the curb. Dakota pulled the ski mask out of his backpack and covered his face, then got out. He tossed the broken burner into the dumpster. Once back in the SUV, Marcus took off.
Dakota waited until they were on I-95, heading back to Virginia, before he broke the silence. “Injuries?”
“None,” Rys replied.
“I’m good,” Stryker said.
“Ditto,” Quincy added.
And just like that, it was done. A serial killer exterminated, like a damn cockroach. But not the one who’d taken his Beth. While Dakota should have felt like the scales of evil had shifted, he didn’t. Pride did not fill his heart, for he knew the devil himself was grinning in anticipation of his arrival. Just because Dakota justified what he and his team did, didn’t make it right. And it certainly didn’t mean God justified it, either.
But Ralph Meyers would kill no more and that was Dakota’s sole goal.
