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Stella isn’t usually bloodthirsty, but her next statement has me wondering if I’ve overlooked something cutthroat and diabolical inside of her, something that I should’ve noticed residing within her.
A kindred spirit.
“Don’t worry, Mera. If there’s anything our men are good at, it’s annihilating rodents and other disease carrying miscreants. And I’m holding the knockout juice that’ll expel their final deathblow.” When Stella raises up her arm, and presses a trigger, a blue and orange flame bursts from the tip like a volcanic eruption.
I’m both scared as well as impressed at the weapon she’s chosen and currently has latched between her five, slender fingers—a handheld blowtorch.
“They’ll be begging for a breath of fresh air by the time it’s all said and done. Only, they’ll find no pity from us. We will obliterate them and their operation. Even if I have to steal their ventilation personally. They will die.” Stella proudly juts her head upward with a destructive look blazing behind her irises.
“Fuck me,” Shamus tosses out, unsure if he should be in awe of Stella, or stay ten feet behind her at all times. I’m personally going to make sure I have her in my sights, so I don’t end up in line of herliteralfire.
“Isn’t she something?” Kruger gloats. “That’s my girl.” I try not to look too closely at the way his eyes are shining as he stares at her, almost as if her words have turned him on. Yeah, that’s not something I want to think about, or hell, evenknowabout.
“She’s something alright,” Texas mutters, but hidden behind his mumbled words is the sound of camaraderie. Texas doesn’t fool me—he’s enthused with her proactiveness. He’ll be the first one standing next to her, pointing out her victims in no orderly fashion, and he’ll do so without missing a beat. Texas loves all things death and destruction. He gets off on hearing his marks’ screams of protest, fear, and pain. Some think he needs to be evaluated and possibly committed—they think he’s fallen off the rocker. I say let him do his thing. He may be a sociopath, and can sometimes be overly psychotic in his pursuits, but that trait is occasionally needed in our field of expertise.
The rest of us keep our traps shut not knowing what to say, and begin the trek to the stairwell, with quiet, practiced proficiency, we get the door open leading down without even so much as a creak from the hinges permeating.
We can hear muffled voices the further we decline, I can’t make out what they’re saying, but the audible cries from the teenagers have my feet accelerating and I start taking two steps at a time, everyone keeping up with my rapid pace. Mera’s hand is holding the seam of my shirt, the stitching at the bottom becomes further compromised when she recognizes the teens as they sob out the words or phrase, “Stop. Please don’t.”
Our feet become featherlight, our weight on the steps ebbs as we hit the chipped and decaying linoleum deck. Lucky for us, we don’t hit the open floor plan, we have a small corridor that’s wide enough to fit us all. Lifting my finger to my lips, I silently order for everyone to stay quiet until I can get a read on and grasp on the seriousness of this situation. As my hand is placed on the wall, I can feel where it’s been scratched, dented, and smashed—spackled with construction mud. The fresh paint has hardly had a chance to dry. As I continue to graze my palm along the plasterboard, I feel a head-sized gouge that’s recently been patched and repaired.
My entire body begins to tremble as the ground quivers beneath my feet.
I’m beyond angry.
I’m motherfucking livid.
These kids have been through more hell than what we’ve speculated.
The men and I glance at each other, we nonverbally and stoically communicate our individual theories. Even if our suspicions are unconfirmed at this juncture, about what they’ve more than likely been through, we decide to keep those accusations to ourselves for the moment. We don't want the women to begin freaking out and act hastily.
We have one shot at this, and we need to be successful. There are no do-overs.
Each one of us pushes our women behind us and takes the lead. As my head peers around the corner, all sense of urgency hits me like a battering ram. We have no more time to stall.
The men and women who’re guests of the nuns are doing disgusting things to the teens. “That’s Winter,” Mera advises, pointing out the girl whose teeth are being examined like she’s cattle.
When our heads shift to the corner where a boy is hollering, “Don’t touch me!” I blackout.
“Oh, God. That’s Cortland,” Mera murmurs. I can hear the tears in her voice at what she’s witnessing. The boy in question has his pants down around his ankles, a couple is all but molesting him as they scrutinize his ball sack. The woman’s hand lifts, wrapping her fingers around his shaft.
“Fuck this,” I hear Shamus state as he rounds me, pulling his arm back as he sprints toward the adult male, and cold cocks him. Star, not one to let her old man show her up, jumps on the bandwagon by leaping onto the female's back, taking her to the ground.
Kruger sees something I didn’t yet, and goes flying past me, becoming a murderous machine, the life has all but vanished from his eyes. Stella, watching the scene unfold, lights her torch and with a battle cry, launches herself into his fight, the odor of burning flesh permeates the room, but I ignore that, and apparently, so does everyone else as we find our targets.
Mera’s finger lifts, showing Charlee three women wearing habits, black robes, and other nun attire. Charlee nods her head, and the two sprint away, the nuns had no clue what hit them, but when the two old ladies take the three down to the floor, a proud and pleased smile crosses my face before I hone in on another man who’s got a teenage girl’s back plastered to his front, using her as a shield.
“Sweetheart?” I call out to the girl. When her eyes snap to mine, I ask, “You okay with a few bumps and bruises?” Her nod confirms that she doesn’t give a shit if she’s caught in the crossfire, she just wants this monster's hands away and off from her adolescent body. “Okay. Close your eyes.”
When she follows my command, I reach into my jeans pocket and drag out my favorite ammunition—my necktie. The guy gets a smarmy smirk on his face, thinking he has this in the bag. He has no idea how ruthless and brutal I can be with this wispy material.
Taunting him, I ask, “Do you see this?” I taper my finger and show him my club designation. Steering his eyes where I want them, I smirk back at him. “They don’t call me Hangman because of the game, although I am good at it, but because this right here, is my weapon of choice.”
His grin fades as he puts two and two together. But I bet he’s not coming up with four, because his knowledge is limited when it pertains to me. I’m a wild card, what you see, and what you get, aren’t always the same thing, they don’t always add up, and by the wrinkles and indented crease in his forehead, he knows it.
Deciding to add a layer of mischievousness to his already growing discomfort, I propose a solution to his current dilemma. “However, I’m willing to make an exception and give you a fighting chance by letting you solve the jigsaw puzzle. First letter begins with ‘I’ and the last letter of the brainteaser ends with ‘U’. Now, it’s up to you to fill the blanks in between the clues I’ve given you.” I’m so full of shit, nothing’s getting him out of this mess. Oh, well. He doesn’t need to know that. I’m allowed to have a slice of fun with my prey.
“Fuck off. I’m not solving jackshit. I’m not an investigator nor a detective, and I never want to be one,” the fuckface spews, being belligerent, which makes me chuckle. “Solve your own damn riddle because I’m not joining you on whatever bullshit game this is you’re trying to play with me.”
