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This wasn't how it was supposed to be. He was supposed to be the one in control.
Zach tried to retreat into himself again, seeking that comfortable numbness, that haze where he didn't have to feel anything. He focused on breathing through his nose, on the rough texture of the carpet under his knees, on anything but what he was being forced to do.
After a few minutes Hal let out a guttural groan, spilling himself into Zach's mouth. Zach spat it on the ground.
He remained kneeling as Hal tucked himself back into his pants, the older man's smug satisfaction rolling off him in waves. "Good boy," Hal said, ruffling Zach's hair. "Keep this up and you'll get your shifts."
Zach stood woodenly, his face blank. He couldn't meet Hal's eyes.
"Now get back out there," Hal said. "Those pizzas aren't going to deliver themselves."
Zach left the office on numb legs, the bitter taste of Hal's come still coating his tongue. He avoided the sight of Chuck working, happily oblivious as he whistled to himself and worked the ovens.
Zach grabbed a waiting stack of boxes and headed for the door, his keys already in hand.
He needed to get out of here, even if it was just to bring lukewarm pizza to impatient customers. Anything to escape.
He drove on autopilot, Hal's abuse blurring into all the other times he'd been used. Meaningless. He was meaningless. A warm mouth. A nice ass.
That's all he was good for.
Chapter three
Wyattenteredhisapartment,the familiar motions of his post-hit routine already beginning. He shed his jacket and shoes methodically, hanging up the former and neatly arranging the latter. With brisk, practiced movements, he retrieved his kit bag and laid out its contents on the kitchen table.
His trusted Glock received his attention first, field stripped and cleaned before being reassembled and tucked away. The garrote wire was coiled neatly back into its pouch, wiped away of its fresh pink stain. A few other odds and ends — lockpicks, a slim blade, plastic restraints — each was wiped down and returned to their proper place, so they'd be exactly where he could find them.
The routine soothed him. Wyatt's motions were smooth and economical after years of practice. There was satisfaction in a job well done, a problem permanently erased. He allowed himself a small smile as he clicked the kit bag shut and stowed it once more, ready for the next client's needs.
For tonight, the city was a little quieter, a little cleaner.
All that remained now was the other kind of maintenance. Wyatt stretched, joints cracking, and headed for the bathroom.
Wyatt examined himself in the bathroom mirror, cataloging the new marks his latest mark had left. A long scratch curved around his ribs where the man had clawed at him in a final desperate struggle. The tear was an angry red line, but it wasn't deep enough to need stitches. Lower down, a scattering of purple bruises was beginning to blossom across his side, a matching set on his face left by a stray elbow. Wyatt probed his ribs gingerly, wincing. At least one rib was likely cracked. Nothing he could do for that but let it heal.
Methodically, he cleaned and dressed the abrasions, his movements smooth and practiced. To his victims, he knew he must look like some dark specter of death, come to claim them. An implacable, unstoppable force. The last nightmare they would ever know.
Wyatt allowed himself a grim smile at the thought as he taped down the last bandage. Let them see him that way — it made the job easier when they were paralyzed by fear. He had no qualms being seen as a monster.
They were right, after all.
Finished tending his injuries, Wyatt gave himself one last look in the mirror.
He saw a man hardened by his work, features etched with the shadows of his profession. His ice blue eyes were cold and calculating, missing nothing, dark circles underscoring the pale irises. Premature lines creased their corners, formed by long nights tracking his prey. His jaw was dusted with stubble, the five o'clock shadow failing to fully mask the cleft in his chin. His dark hair had begun to show the first streaks of gray at the temples, though he liked to think that they lent him an air of distinction, rather than age. Fuck that; he didn't feel like he was gonna be over the hill any time soon.
Overall, his appearance was nondescript, forgettable. That was an asset in his work. But underneath that, his muscular frame radiated coiled strength. In the harsh bathroom light, his bare torso was a map of old scars and fresh wounds, each one a story from the battlefield of his work. Some had nearly cost him his life over the years. But he had survived, and continued to survive.
Even if, at his darkest moments, Wyatt wondered what he was still living for.
It didn't matter. The new marks would fade in time, like all the rest. He was still standing. Still hunting. Death walked on.
Wyatt felt a swell of satisfaction in his chest. Tonight's target had been a good one, for the first time in a long time. A human trafficker, one who preyed on the vulnerable and desperate. Wyatt had tracked the man for weeks, watching with disgust as he lured in young girls and boys. The man's operation was a cancer in the city's underbelly, fueled by greed and cruelty.
But now it was over. Wyatt had caught the trafficker alone, vulnerable. There had been a brief, futile struggle before Wyatt's hands ended the parasite's miserable existence. No one would miss him.
The dark wave that had been building in Wyatt crested and broke; this was why he did this work. Removing the human stains that slipped through the cracks of lawful justice.
Wyatt's lips curled in a mirthless smile. They never expected retribution to come for them. Never realized he was there until the end. He was a final nightmare they would never wake from.
