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“And then I’m going to kill him.”
I stare at the worthless piece of shit in front of me. A quaking, sobbing, poor excuse of a man. He’s petrified, and he has every reason to be because right now, I hold his life in my hands.
Donald Fistler has plenty of money, enough to pay for the huge glass front house he has looking out over the city, enough to pay for the fancy Porsche he’s got sitting on his drive, and more than enough to pay for women.
Which is why I am certain that the rapes he committed were merely done for sport.
I read through the police report that Roswell sent to my burner cell. There are three counts of rape, one of them on his own employee, the other on a stripper from Fort Collins. The last one was a minor. It’s fully justifiable for me to be here with a shit ton of rage that needs siphoning from my blood and a blade in my hand.
“Please don’t hurt me. I have money. Take it all. Open my safe it’s right under my desk. The code is 7546.”
I give him a wicked smile. This fucker thinks money can get him out of anything. But I ain’t powered by money. He could have a hundred million dollars stashed in that safe, and it wouldn’t save his pathetic little life.
“Please…” he begs again, this time with tears streaming from his eyes.
I’m nothing like Jessie or Brax. I didn't come here with a plan or a hundred different ways to fuck with the guy's head before I end him. I came here to serve justice and to scratch a sick, twisted itch that burns like a river of lava beneath my skin.
I have my own rules when it comes to this sort of thing. Donald Fistler will be no exception to the other sorry lives I’ve ended.
I leave him a jittering wreck on his kitchen floor and move over to his knife block, pulling out the one with the biggest handle and clutching it in my palm. I move back toward Donald, who’s managed to crawl himself halfway across the open-plan room to where his cell phone is resting on the glass-top coffee table.
He freezes when my shadow overpowers him, looking up at me like some poor pitiful wretch. I hold out the knife I took from his block out to him, and he blinks at it like he’s hallucinating.
No motherfucker, I came here to kill you. That doesn’t mean you don’t get a shot at a fair fight.
This is a fundamental part of my rule. On occasions like this one, I allow the person the chance to fight back. There’s no retribution in turning up, shooting an asshole in the face, and leaving. That’s too fast and far too humane, and no one feels any pain that way. I like them to fight back. I like to feel a little pain myself if they're good enough to get a chance to inflict it.
He takes the knife in his shaky hand, staring at the blade as he struggles up to his feet.
“I don’t want to fight. Just tell me why you're here.” He holds the knife up as a barrier between us like it’s actually going to protect him. If he had any sense, he’d slit his own throat with it because I intend to take chunks out of him. To have him bleed out slowly–so he smells his own flesh rot.
I ignore his question. I’ve kept my voice from the brothers at my club and even from my own mother for the past fifteen years. I'm not about to waste the muscles in my tongue on this low life. He can determine why I’m here when his soul’s being dragged to hell, and the devil's the one judging him.
Naturally, he lunges first, like he’s holding a fencing sword. His eyes glisten with fear when I snatch at his wrist, forcing it backward until I hear the bone crack. The knife clatters to the floor, and all the odds are back against him. He howls in pain, but it’s more like a cub calling for his mama than the big bad wolf who preys on women. I allow him to pick the knife up with his other hand and wave it around a little before I reach around the back of his head and force it to meet with my knee.
Donald falls to the floor and balls himself up, and I land a hard blow into his face with my boot that has him unfolding.
I take my blade and pierce the skin under his rib cage, feeling his bone scrape against my blade as I slowly sink it deeper. Blood oozes out of the incision, and air wheezes from his lungs.
I torture myself thinking about all the things he might have done to Lydia had he managed to get his hands on her, and that's when all my calm evaporates. The anger seethes through my muscles as I cut through his flesh, slicing a long gash from his sternum, through his chest, and down to his stomach. I want to reach inside him and rip out his insides, but I don’t have the patience for it, not when I think about how he’d have gotten off on hurting her. And with one more thrust of my knife, up under his chin, I finish him.
He chokes a little and spits out blood, but it doesn't take him long. I sit with my back against his kitchen counter and my arms draped over my knees while I watch every last second of his suffering.
The blood is dripping from his body and rapidly pooling around him as I stare at the massacre, and I slowly breathe myself back to calm again. When I light up a smoke, I can smell his blood on my hands as I inhale. It’s setting on my skin and staining my clothes.
I usually do this for Beth, for all the times I let her down, and to show her I ain’t weak anymore. But it ain’t her I’m thinking about right now. It’s Lydia, the girl who's taken my life and spun it on its axis. The girl who calls me a savior, but if she saw me now would know I’m a monster.
I pull out my cell and see that I have twenty missed calls from my brother, and I ignore them all to message Roswell.
It's done.
I suck more nicotine into my lungs while I decide what to do about the body. I could call it into Grimm. I’ve done that a few times before. He never asks me questions, and I still haven’t decided if that’s out of loyalty or because he’s just as fucked up as I am and doesn't want to add to the secrets he keeps buried in his own head.
This could easily be made to look like a home invasion. The fucker’s rich, I was minimal in what I’ve touched, and thanks to Maddy, none of our prints are in the system anymore. Whatever I do, it has to be thorough because this can’t come back on the club. I’m in enough shit where they’re concerned.
I shove on the leather gloves I keep in my back pocket and move over to the safe under his desk, pressing in the code he was so willing to give me. It clicks open, and the cash inside is arranged in neat bundles. There has to be over fifty grand here, and I take it all, but not for myself.
Roswell will have the details for the women who this man made suffer, and this will be their compensation. That, and the assurance he will never hurt them again.
