Page 94 of Every Last Breath

He played out the scenario. Not once, not twice, but over and over. He had to see it sharply, precisely, and it’d be reality. Clean. Fluid.

The burner phone in his pocket hummed. Without looking, he knew it was Val texting. Kinkade was on her way up.

A faint conversation in the hall. Female voices. One older. The apartment door clicked open and slammed shut. Footsteps. Light. Only hers. The kitchen faucet ran.

Silence. Glass tapped granite.

Footsteps approached the bedroom. Sneakers and bare calves crossed the threshold in front of the bed. She hesitated and turned, standing still.

He controlled every movement, every breath, didn’t blink.

She drifted into the living room and didn’t move. Seconds later, she checked the closet.

Good senses.

Lowering his eyes to the carpet, he slowed his heartbeat, reeled in his energy to a level as stagnant as moss. Deflecting her intuition with his stillness.

She spun on her heel and went into the bathroom, leaving the door ajar. A toilet flushed and water from the shower started.

Taking a breath, he slid out from under the bed and darted into the corner across from the nightstand. He eased the device from his pocket and switched it on.

The bathroom door opened wide. “Cole?” She stepped into the bedroom in her bra and skimpy panties, looking toward the living room. “You can’t keep breaking in like this.”

Aleksander swooped in as she pivoted. Her head didn’t make it over her shoulder for a glance behind her. A blue arc of electricity crackled across the metal prongs, buzzing like a trapped wasp.

He jammed the stun gun into her ribs.

One hundred thousand volts of electricity flooded her body.

A scream strangled in her throat, her face contorted in agony. The way she shook, rapid and violent, unsettled him. Suffering was unnecessary. She was only an annoyance he needed to contain. A pest.

He shut off the stun gun and caught her shuddering body.

Soft. Shocking how soft a woman could be. The memory of softness had long evaporated.

Gently, he laid her on the bed. Scantily clothed wouldn’t do. He wasn’t a sadist. Peering into the open bureau drawers, he found stretchy pants and a T-shirt. He took the syringe from his other pocket and flicked off the green cap at the foot of the bed. That breadcrumb would be the first thing Scarface would see when entering the room later. The stun gun would be the second.

Aleksander found a delicate blue vein in her arm and depressed a mix of ketamine and midazolam, two powerful sedatives that when combined reduced the risk of unfortunate respiratory effects. An elementary score from a local veterinary clinic.

Noting the time, he dressed her down to socks. A small kindness where she was going. Although they were adversaries, he bore her no ill will.

In fact, this was goodwill. He snickered at his joke.

This was merely a means to securing his vengeance. She was Scarface’s weakness. The weakness of the men around her, if they cared for her. He’d scratch their weakness, make it bleed. While her men scoured the city in desperate search of her, chasing his planted clues, spinning their wheels away from Aleksander, he’d be free to do what was needed.

The time of retribution was at hand.

He lifted her warm, limp body into his arms. Her head lolled toward his stomach, and he wanted to brush her hair from her face. He tucked her in a folded embryo position inside the extra-large duffel bag—the perfect size for her slim frame—and zipped it closed.

Kneeling, he slipped his arms through the straps, rolled to his hands and knees, and stood. He adjusted the weight of her on his back, gaining his balance. As he shut the apartment door, the one directly across the hall opened.

An elderly black lady with a rust-colored mutt stood in the threshold. The dog yipped at him, and the woman glared. “Who are you?”

“Picking up a donation of old clothes for Goodwill.”

“Oh, I’m surprised that sweet girl didn’t tell me. I could’ve given her some stuff.” The dog barked and jerked at the leash.

He kicked a warning at the animal.