Page 18 of Mile High Heist

At hour two, he popped a pill and scrubbed a nervous hand over his head. His elbow jabbed mine on the armrest. He considered me from the corner of his eye, debating whether to start a feud over the territory.

Do it, my demons purred. Breaking his arm would be cathartic to me. My fingers itched, imagining the pressure, the exact right angle.

He averted his eyes again and tucked his arms securely in his lap.

Boring.

I twisted the pen harder into my thigh, seeking that euphoric rush of pain. I teased the resistance of muscle and flesh. Two inches to the right and I’d hit my femoral artery. I’d lose consciousness in thirty seconds, bleed to death in less than five minutes.

Tempting.

And when the fresh rotation of kicks pounded into my seat, my demons began to stir.

Fate intervened like the usual killjoy it was. My phone buzzed against my thigh. I loosened my grip on death, an automatic reaction, like blinking after too long in the dark.

He always knows…

Jax had a sixth sense for when I was on the brink of destruction. He was a study in paradoxical contrasts. Astute in some ways, completely fucking clueless in others. It was what made him interesting. It was what held my attention when nothing else did.

ALPHA: Update. Sparrow?

I typed a quick response. No movement.

Which was disappointing. The monster in me recognized the presence of another. Unlike me, Peter Vincilli wasn’t someone who existed in shadows. He hid in plain sight, attracting his prey like a moth to a flame. Those around him were helpless to resist him.

If only they knew about the bodies he’d buried. The women he’d raped. The men he’d disemboweled. He was a trophy killer, arrogant enough to sell the footage on the dark web. I’d watched every one of them, analyzing his technique. All the while, Zola had been gagging into the trash can behind me.

“How can you watch that stuff with a straight face?” She’d asked me.

Because it was boring. Because the depravity of men never shocked me anymore.

A deep voice boomed behind me: “Will you shut up that stupid kid!?”

The frantic mother fell silent, stunned by the outburst. Heads swiveled toward us, clowns in the corporate circus.

“I’m sorry,” the mother said tearfully, just as her sprog reached a new crescendo. My fingers clenched on the pen. Two inches, five minutes. A blissful, bloody end.

The man beside me shifted. A side effect of his hair loss medication, aside from the impotence, was roaring hemorrhoids. His eyes flicked nervously to the pen in my fist. I was the reason he clenched up.

A smile curled my lips just as the irritating voice boomed again: “Jesus Christ, woman! Keep him silent so the rest of us don’t have to suffer!”

The mother apologized again, not that she was heard. Not that anyone was listening.

No one ever listened.

Not now, and not back then. I closed my eyes and heard it again, softer, an echo of the past.

Stupid kid.

A fist.

A boot.

“I’m sorry,” the mother whimpered again.

The man scoffed at her.

My smile sharpened.