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She’s haunted me since the day she betrayed me. I’ve never been able to stop thinking about her. I’ve never moved past it. I can only think of one way to end this obsession, and now that I’ve broken free from the shackles of false morality that my family tried to wrap me in… I’ve decided. Her days are numbered. And I’ll make the rest of her short life hell.
The front door bangs open, and four men, dressed all in black, rush out of the house. It looks as if they’re wearing body armor, which means my best chance is a head shot. Very difficult to make at this distance, even with my night vision scope.
Good. I love a challenge.
I shoot the first man, watching the top of his head explode. The others dive for cover, and I line up my sights again, lightning fast, and my finger hugs the trigger. The bullet finds its target. Two down.
The other two try to crawl off into the bushes, but I dispatch them quickly, much too quickly. I’m only half satisfied, like a man forced to wolf down a luscious filet mignon without enough time to savor it.
A fast kill doesn’t do it for me. Every day I learn more about my needs. Someday soon, I promise myself, I will find someone and will open them up like a present, unwrapping them very slowly.
I wait a few minutes, scanning the area, listening intently.
When nothing happens, I go into the house. The door gapes open.
I’m heading into a complete unknown. Crouching killers, or a hailstorm of bullets, might be waiting for me.
Joy sings through my veins.
Crumpled bodies in the foyer show me what happened to Robert’s guards.
I creep slowly and silently through the house, craning my ears for any sound. I hear nothing, but I smell the coppery reek of blood, and it calls to me, stirring up a predator’s hunger.
When I enter the kitchen, I’m greeted by the sight of Robert’s head on an ornate silver platter in the middle of the table. His eyes are wide open in horror, his mouth sagging. There’s a letter in front of the bowl.MAYbe he should have been a little more careful.A headless body, which I’m assuming is his, is sitting in a chair with its hands nailed to the table.
The word May in capital letters… why? It’s April, next month is May…
I dismiss this from my head and hurry downstairs to the basement. The door gapes open, and the air smells of pennies. Robert’s prisoners are sprawled on the floor in the middle of the room. Someone carved a red smile into each of their throats. The smile clashes their terror-twisted faces.
Their nightmare is over now.
Pity.
Waste of good practice.
I hurry through the house. The country-casual furniture is spotless and new. He didn’t live here full time. A quick search through cabinets and dresser drawers confirms this; there’s no personal papers or memorabilia.
I snap a picture of Robert’s fingers with my cell phone and leave quickly through the back door.
After I’ve left the area, I run Robert’s fingerprints through a special database of my own, and come up with Robert Franklin of Virginia.
Some research shows me that the Franklins are an old and vastly wealthy family. There is a senator Mitchell Franklin. He’s related to Robert Franklin’s father, Artemis Franklin, who is the CEO of Franklin Timber. There is also an appeals court judge in their family... The first record of the Franklins is in the 1700s. They made their money with tobacco farms, timber, and in more recent years, commodities trading.
And the men all look like Robert—and me. Or at least, the way I used to look.
It’s a good possibility that whoever killed Robert was also the person who sent the man to kill me with a sniper rifle. That makes more sense than Robert inviting me to America, showing me his kinky little secrets, and then trying to murder me via sneak attack.
I place a call to Franklin Timber from my burner phone. It’s the only number of the Franklin family I’ve been able to find, other than the numbers of the senator and the appeals court judge, and I don’t think it’s a good idea to try to reach out to such public figures.
I leave a message. “This is Robert’s cousin Bastien. We need to talk about Robert. I’ll call again tomorrow morning at nine o’clock.” Then I drive back to the city and book a room in a different hotel, using another one of my fake identities.
I don’t remember falling asleep. I don’t remember anything until morning, when I wake up feeling slightly woozy in a strange bed, in a strange room. Sunlight floods through the window.
I bolt upright, instantly alert. Physically, I feel fine. I pat myself down; I’m wearing my slacks and T-shirt. I don’t see my phone anywhere. My wallet is resting on the night table. I normally carry a knife and a pistol; those are gone.
My mouth feels thick and cottony, so I head to an open door which leads to a bathroom. After I drink water and use the toilet, I grab the bathroom window and slide it up. It opens easily, and I see manicured green hedges outside.
The bedroom door swings open. Somebody must have been watching me on a hidden camera to see when I’d wake up. A woman in a hilariously obscene French maid’s outfit walks in hesitantly, her gaze downcast.
