Page 9 of Ripple Effect: Ep. 1

“C’mon!” I resist the pull when we reach the hallway.

“I need my Lovey!” she whines, twisting her arm to break free.

Her fucking bear. My God, if we’re killed because of that ragged piece of shit, I’ll kick myself for playing hero.

With Randy’s curses bouncing off the wall in the kitchen, we push through the bedroom door. Chanel raises her hands in the air, standing beside my bed, where she’s packed a duffel of my clothes.

I flick my fingers. “Give me the pills.”

With a trembling hand, she reaches into her pocket and hands me the bottle of Oxy. A quick rattle tells me it’s mostly full and keeping the gun on her, I stuff them into my jeans. “Get down or I’ll put a bullet in your skull.”

When she does as told, I nab the duffle, toss Layla a coat, and grab her hand, dragging her through the apartment. As we pass through the kitchen, Randy’s still writhing on the floor with the knife sticking out of his side and he clambers to his knees, reaching out for my ankle. I kick him in the face and he flops to the floor like a dead fish. Shielding Layla, I back us toward the door, keeping my gun on both him and Hoss who hobbles into the kitchen.

“I’ll find you, bitch. I’ll find you and I’ll fucking rip you apart from the inside out.” Hoss growls, stumbling toward us, but at the lift of my gun, he halts his steps.

I slam the door and tug Layla behind me, with Charlie on our heels, out into the streets.

3

Ripley

I’m a man of three simple pleasures:

The hunt.

The capture.

And the kill.

I tip my head, studying the agony in the man’s tired face as I twirl his severed finger in front of him. The kill is close. His eyes tell me he’s had enough, brimming with exhaustion and pain and a thousand emotions I can’t even begin to empathize with. I’ve already removed three fingers, yet the bastard still hasn’t said a word about whom he works for. They called him Casanova based on his looks.

That was before I sliced away an ear and half his lips.

The basement swallows his screams in a cold and desolate tomb where I’ve already snuffed his partner. The moldy stench and rotted meat smell clings to my nose, while the tinny scent of blood hits the back of my throat, and I toss the finger to the floor where it lands beside the others.

Sometimes I wish the smell bothered me, that the look of remorse in their eyes somehow moved me. It doesn’t anymore. Nothing penetrates the layers of fuckupedness that have become a permanent skin I wear while killing. Not the sounds of tearing flesh, the screams, nor the crack and sizzle of their skin when I eventually burn what’s left of them.

I keep working until they talk. That’s what I’m paid to do, and I’ve become damn good at it. I’ve got a certain charisma when it comes to killing—a charming motherfucker with a gun.

That’s me.

I’m not a hitman, though. My job is far more dangerous and more than simply business. I infiltrate some of the most ruthless gangs and syndicates in Chicago, posing as a hitman to gain access to my true target. Some gigs take months. Months of wearing a mask, playing the part, prepared to stab the backs of the very men to whom I’ve sworn my loyalty.

I’m a vengeance dealer. A mercenary. I feign loyalty to exact revenge.

I happen to kill on Tuesdays mostly, because there isn’t shit to do on Tuesdays, and I do it mostly at night. Day is for stalking my prey, but night is when the magic happens. Darkness has a way of welcoming immoral self-indulgence. Whether it’s sex or murder, the night makes it a bit more personal, dream-like, since most of the world is in a state of suspended consciousness. Completely unaware of the danger that lurks among them during the day.

Most assholes talk the moment I pull my bag of tools. I’ve never interrogated longer than two hours—even when I had my fun. We’ve already gotten most of the information from shithead number one, who I propped in a chair across the room, hoping the sight of him would be enough. Only thing he didn’t tell me is who ordered the hit, but in all fairness, I didn’t press him too much. Figured he’d make a better prop for shithead number two, who happens to be holding out like he’s going to win a medal at the end of this.

Should’ve known another enforcer wouldn’t crack so easily. Can’t say I blame him. I wouldn’t talk either if a motherfucker had me under the lamp and blade.

“I don’t … have the information … you’re looking for.” The guy is tough, I’ll give him that. Not many could sit through hours of torture, dehydration, having his balls removed with a rubberband, and the massive blood loss pooling on the floor.

He’s close, though. The pallid tone of his skin, the blue in his lips and labored breaths tell me death is one painful knock away.

“At this point, I don’t even care what you know anymore. This has officially gone from business to pleasure.”

He pants and coughs up blood through his nose and mouth. “Karma’s a … bitch.”