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Martinez screams loudly, crying like a baby, as they pull so hard I hear the familiar snap of a bone. “Looks like I got to snap that femur anyway.” Blais chuckles maniacally.
A vibration pulls my attention from the scene in front of me, so I nod to Theon and Blais, signaling them to finish Martinez off as I step outside the room. Thankfully, it’s soundproofed so the screams won’t be heard in the hall. Reaching into my pocket, I grab my phone and see who’s calling.
“What do you have, Brian?”
“Hey, boss. You’re going to want to get down to Trinity. There’s a large crowd here, but that Ross Novak guy you wanted deets on if he ever comes in, is here.”
This night just keeps getting better.
“Thanks, Brian. We’ll be right there.” I end the call, smiling at the fact that our plan will finally be set in action. Novak’s not going to know what hit him when the Saints come for him.
I head back into the room where I see Blais adjusting himself in his pants. The sick fucker always gets so turned on by bloodshed, but I can’t say I blame him. We each have a craving for violence and torture. It’s brought us all closer together as the years have gone on, so I get where he’s coming from.
Martinez’s mutilated body sits lifeless in the metal chair. The skin barely hanging on to his chest, and the way his body looks disfigured should make me sick, but instead makes my heart race with excitement. A strong metallic scent hits my nose as I watch blood drip from his body. The thick red liquid pours down the drain below him.
My chest pulls tight at the sight before me. He got what he deserved.
“Who called?” Theon pries as he begins to undo the binds holding Jake’s body.
“It was Brian. Said Novak is at the club. We should clean this up and go.”
A combination of anger and excitement etches across Theon’s face. “Finally. I can’t wait to take that fucking prick out,” he says, grabbing the pressure washer in the corner in a hurry to get Novak’s blood off his hands. When we built this room, we knew the type of activities we’d be doing in here, so we made sure there was an adequate drainage system and a power washer for easy clean up.
Blais begins to wrap up the body in a plastic tarp as Theon goes to call Vinny and inform him we’re dropping a body off for him. Luckily, Vinny, who we all met as kids, is just as twisted as we are, and allows us to drop bodies off at the morgue that he owns, so he can incinerate the evidence of our crimes.
Once we get the room cleaned up and take showers ourselves, we leave the house and head toward the blacked-out Tahoe that’s now housing Jake’s lifeless body. The cool air smacks my face as I take in the eerily quiet sound outside. We built this house about twenty miles outside of the city in the middle of a heavily wooded area. The closest neighbors are six miles away in each direction so no one ever bothers us.
On the outside, the house looks like a quaint modern home out in the woods. Like a retreat home that you go to, to escape the city. It’s two stories, painted a dark gray slate color, and it has a large wrap-around porch on the front. On the inside, it’s set up like any other home, but the basement is what makes it special.
We have a torture chamber, a holding cell, and a storage room for all of our chains, knives, cattle prods, and other torture devices we may need down there. Just looking at it, it seems boring with the concrete walls and floors, but it’s our happy place. It’s where we find ourselves stepping into the shoes of the men we were always meant to be. We can let our inner demons out with no judgment in the world. A sweet escape from the reality we live in.
“You good, man?” Theon’s voice cuts through my thoughts as we slide into the seats.
“Yeah, just thinking about this place.” I shrug as I turn the key and the SUV rumbles beneath us. “Did you get a hold of Vinny?”
“He’s expecting us in about forty minutes. Said he’d be ready for us.” I nod my head and put the SUV in drive heading toward Vinny’s. Hopefully, this shouldn’t take too long, because we’ve got a surprise guest waiting for us at the club.
Patiently waiting for the line to move to get into Trinity, my hands slide down the soft material of the skimpy black dress covering my hips. Wearing a dress is a rare occurrence for me, much less one that’s skin-tight and barely covers my ass. I probably could’ve gone with something longer, but I wanted to fit in at the club. Throw that in with the bright red strap-up heels I’m wearing, and it pulls the entire look together.
I’d never own something like this normally, but the good ole FBI paid for this little number. For some reason, it felt way too good sliding that credit card across the counter of the high-end boutique on Main Street yesterday. It was nice not having to worry about whether I had enough money to cover it.
A week ago, I settled into my temporary apartment as Courtney Thompson. I’ve spent my time scoping out the city, talking to anyone who might be able to give me inside information on Ross Novak.
Who would’ve thought I’d get the most helpful information from the gas station attendant? I slipped Novak’s name into the conversation while checking out, pretending to be interested in him, and the guy word-vomited everything he knew about Novak.
Apparently, Novak spends his Friday and Saturday nights at clubs around Cincinnati and the surrounding areas.
Tonight, he’ll be at Trinity.
The guy is predictable and has a set line-up. Trinity is his last club before he starts the routine all over again at Club Illusion on the other side of town. You’d think he’d come back to the clubs frequently, but according to the gas station attendant, there are about ten clubs in his rotation so he doesn’t visit each one too often.
The fact that he goes to ten of the fanciest clubs around here on a set schedule can’t be a coincidence, can it? I’ve looked at the list of victims and a few of them are regulars at these clubs, but that’s not enough to pin Novak. I need actual evidence, not just some circumstantial theory I’ve cooked up.
“Keep it moving,” the large tattooed man in all black, with an earpiece, barks at me, pulling me from my thoughts on my target. My lips curl into a friendly smile, taking a step toward the front door of the hottest club in Cincinnati. The bouncer’s hand shoots out to stop me, not caring that he’s touching my boobs. The smile melts off my face, and I narrow my eyes in his direction, but he doesn’t seem phased by it. The way he thinks he can just touch me like that makes my blood boil. My lungs fill to capacity before I exhale, trying to calm myself. If I wasn’t on a job, I’d embarrass his ass in front of everyone. I can imagine social media headlines now:“Five-foot-three petite blonde knocks out six-foot-four bouncer in rage over boob touching scandal.”
“ID,” he spits with a wicked grin, showing his crooked yellow teeth.
I grab my fake ID out of my red clutch, holding it out for the bouncer. The only real thing on there is my picture. It’s weird seeing my face staring back at me with all the wrong information around it. I guess the address isn’t technically wrong since I live there, but it’s not my home.
