Page 15 of Ripple Effect: Ep. 1

Lou told me a while back that he liked to hang around schoolyards and once held a fourteen-year-old girl for two weeks, forcing Marchetti to pay off her family in order to protect his beloved cash handler. He pulls away from the curb and I wait, ticking off the seconds as I let him get a head start.

Down Kostner, I keep my distance, following about ten cars behind him. The Malibu swerves toward the curb, out of control, until it straightens itself back on the road. Girl must’ve gotten wise, probably just realizing she’s in deep shit. She hasn’t seen anything yet. When I get my hands on old Frank, my only objective will be silencing the bastard, and it isn’t going to be pretty.

It’s never pretty with my kills.

I glance down at my black duffel bag where all my tools are stored. A rush of excitement beats through me, imagining Frank’s face the moment he comes to realize it doesn’t matter what he tells me—that split second he comes to understand how much I truly enjoy my work.

Frank turns down a side street, nothing but industrial buildings lining either side of the road. I stop short of the entrance of what looks like a tool and die shop and flip my lights off, creeping behind him. When he turns into the parking lot, the street light flashes across the window at the same time the girl’s head hits the glass. Must’ve knocked her out.

I stay put, waiting for him to get cozy with her. Once his hands start roaming her, he’ll let his guard down. As much as I like the cat and mouse shit, I’ve grown bored of the madman front. Used to be I’d toy with them a bit, give them a thin glimmer of hope, make them think they’d gotten away, before striking out of nowhere. Now I leave the hope shit for the final cut—the moments just before I issue that deadly blow that ends the game.

Maybe I’m losing my touch. I cringe to think I’ve gotten lazy over the years.

I’d always been good at killing—really, the only thing I’ve ever excelled at from a young age, thanks to my fucked up dad who liked to use me as target practice for his fists. Over ten years, I’ve hunted dangerous criminals in Chicago and it was my old man who gave me most of the scars I wear today.

At sixteen years old, I’d become one of the most feared enforcers on the streets, known for my brutal methods of killing, and protected by the most powerful organization in the underbelly.

Nobody could touch me.

And before long, everyone feared me.

Ten minutes pass as I sit tapping my finger on the black bag beside me. The moon is high tonight, bright and full of mirth, as if even night herself delights in what’s to come.

I slide out of the car, bag in hand, and light a cigarette. Only time I smoke is just before a kill, mostly because I find it amusing that forensics never finds the cigarette butts at the crime scenes. I doubt Lou and Rene are doing the environment any favors by picking them up. I keep waiting for that one ambitious, over-achieving Clarice-type investigator who insists on scouring beyond the police tape, but it never happens.

Maybe they ignore it on purpose. After all, who the fuck cares if a child killer or a rapist or an enforcer for the city’s biggest crime outfit ends up on the chopping block? Less paperwork. Less red tape and political bullshit. Less criminals equates to happy residents, more money. So what if a few lives get snuffed in the process?

I round the corner where Frank’s car sits parked, quiet, undisrupted, and stop for a quick peek before I continue on, following a line in the dirt where the girl’s heels must’ve dragged, as he carried her toward the factory.

By now, he should be well into his fun and won’t suspect a thing.

A scream from inside tells me the girl’s conscious, which means I have to decide what to do with her in all of this. A dead, raping pedophile is one thing. A dead prostitute, however, won’t appeal to the sympathy of the masses who, in spite of their slut shaming, won’t be as forgiving of a young girl’s slaughter.

I’ll have to be mindful not to get her blood on anything.

I enter the factory through a back door that’s been propped open by a broken cinder block, as if the bastard has taken girls here before and knows it has a sticky handle or some shit.

A shout rings out and I back myself against a wall that separates what appears to be the main floor of the factory. Peeking around the corner shows the girl, holding one hell of a blade, and Frank with his hands in the air, his snake’s smile stretched across his face.

I notice the girl’s hand is steady, her clothes in tact. No evidence at all to suggest she was attacked up until now.

“Huh,” I murmur, half in awe, half contemplating how I approach. Maybe she’ll bolt, but I can’t risk she’ll run to the cops.

She flicks her fingers and Frank drops the bag of money onto the floor.

No shit. I want to laugh at the girl’s stupidity. If Frank weren’t one step away from his own gruesome demise, she’d be a dead woman for stealing from the Marchettis.

She opens the bag and removes a few bills of cash then tosses it back to him. One of the non-greedy variety of thieves, it seems.

Stab him. The longer I watch her interaction, the more I’m rooting for her, and suddenly wishing I had a bowl of popcorn and a soda.

When she backs away, a wave of disappointment strikes my gut that she didn’t seize the opportunity to kill the bastard. Never walk away. Best advice I was ever given—always kill first.

She halts as Frank pulls his gun, pointing it square at her head.

Dumb. Had she been quick, taken the bastard by surprise, she’d have kept the upper hand.

“On your knees, cunt.” He fires a warning shot to the side of her that ricochets off the machines somewhere in the dark factory.