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This guy, on the other hand, wouldn’t be so lucky. He was one of Franco Hopkins’s right-hand men—the closest to my real target I had come thus far.
But I would find Franco soon enough. I would make sure of it.
I clutched the dampened cloth in my hand, my muscles nearly trembling with the anticipation of what I was about to do, and as I got closer, a fire began to burn in my chest.
My target loomed ahead, his silhouette shrouded in the darkness of the night. At just under six feet tall, he was pudgy around the middle, which would make it harder to carry him. But not impossible.
Satisfaction surged at the sight of him. Finally, I’d be carving my knife into his body, draining every ounce of his blood for information.
I glanced around the space, my senses heightened by the tension that hung heavy in the air. In the distance, the metallic screech of the “L” train only added to the sense of chaos and danger that seemed to permeate every inch of this desolate alley.
Even if he turned around, he probably wouldn’t see me. Knocking the two light bulbs out with my fist saw to that, plunging the passage into darkness.
My heart raced as every nerve in my body ignited with excitement, adrenaline surging through my veins, the way it always did in anticipation of a kill.
In a flash, I sprinted toward him, my senses heightened by the thrill of the hunt—the guy too oblivious to sense the impending doom until it came crashing into him.
I shoved the cloth tightly to his face, smothering his nose and mouth with the fabric soaked in the fast-acting drug. While my other arm wrapped around his chest from behind.
He struggled for a few moments, thrashing about in a futile attempt to free himself from my grasp, but it was no use. Within seconds, he was unconscious, his body slumping to the ground with a thud.
I stood over him, my body pulsing, knowing this was only the beginning.
Normally, I didn’t take people to my underground bunker. There was no need; the job was usually done with one slash to their throat, but not this time.
This time, the stakes were too high. I needed information from him, and I wasn’t about to let him slip through my fingers, so last night, I’d prepared a space where I could extract the answers I needed without any interruptions.
The guy was heavy, like a sack full of stones. I grunted as I heaved him up and slung him over my shoulder, walking through the dark alley until I reached my awaiting vehicle—a glossy black Lexus LS 500h, capable of high speeds with a quiet motor, complete with tinted windows. I threw him in the back seat as quickly as possible, knowing I only had a few minutes to get him to my bunker before he would wake up.
In the depths of a chamber hidden underground, stone walls encased a space filled with shadows and dread. The air was laced with a sinister aura, as if it could whisper the secret of my crimes.
It was here, in this very room, that I kept evidence that I was the Windy City Vigilante: a collection of weapons—mostly knives that could never be traced back to me. A lone computer and printer, where I could research crimes anonymously and pin that research to a board mounted to the far wall. It was here where I could unleash the darkest part of my soul and pick my next target.
Like this guy, who now sat bound to a battered, wooden chair that creaked and groaned under his weight—his face etched with terror.
The room’s dim light—cast by battery-operated bulbs strung haphazardly around the room—accentuated the darkness that permeated the space. A lingering scent of damp earth and musty air assaulted my nostrils.
A sense of unease invaded my bones because this was unfamiliar territory for me—I was used to working in the shadows, taking down my targets quickly and quietly.
But this time, everything was different.
A sense of foreboding lingered at the risk that someone might find out he was here. I’d considered other locations to take him, but this was the only place in the city where I could extract answers without risking interruption or capture by police.
Besides, I reminded myself, it was underground. No one knew about this place, and no one would even know how to find it.
“Who the fuck are you?” the guy demanded.
Despite the cool temperature down here, sweat shone across his forehead, and his breathing cut through the silence with his trembles of fear.
He was a rather ugly man with tiny eyes buried in an oval face and two giant nostrils.
I wondered how many women had to stare at those giant holes while he raped them and then killed them when they fought back.
“Who I am doesn’t matter,” I said. “What matters is whoyouare.”
“Look, I don’t know who you think I am, but—”
“I know exactly who you are.”
