I set my knife to his bare chest and focus on making the cuts deep and even. It’s difficult work with my subject trembling so hard, but I suppose it’s been a long day for him. I’m surprised he has the energy to move.
He pissed himself a while ago. Now he’s too dehydrated to do anything but moan.
My phone vibrates on the metal cart that holds the rest of my tools.
I set the knife down to answer it. “Report.”
“She left the shoe shop in a taxi. Should be arriving in ten.”
“Show me.”
I pace toward the window, not wanting to see a picture of my little bird while standing near one of the men who attacked her. I stand in a band of pale light as the picture comes through in a few seconds. And there she is: my little bird wrapped in her dingy coat, her chin tucked into the collar against the wind.
Poor, sweet swallow, innocent and so alone.The next picture comes through, showing a pedestrian, a man, turning his head to check her out as she passes. I stiffen, but it’s clear from the photo that Inara doesn’t notice her admirer. And Igor would stop anyone from getting close. It would blow his cover—she’ll recognize him as her driver the night she was attacked—but it’d be worth it to keep my little bird safe.
I pocket my phone and head back to my victim. Adam Devida. Twenty-seven, one of the Five Points gang. Believes in white supremacy, the great replacement theory.
And doing meth. Lots and lots of meth.
A total waste of space. No one to miss him but his friend Joey.
But Joey’s dead now, so who will care about Adam’s death?
No one. No one at all.
Joey pushed my little bird. And my rage burned red. His death came swiftly.
Dumping him on her doorstep wasn’t wise, but there’s nothing to link him back to me. And what’s the fun of having so much money and power if I can’t dispose of people exactly how I please?
In my own way, I take out the trash. First Joey. And soon, Adam will join his friend. Another two days and water deprivation will do its work. It’s torture to die this way, but it’s still too good for Adam.
He’d called my little bird a bitch. For that, I will take his tongue.
He senses my movements from a few feet away and turns his head. He’s blindfolded but attuned to my presence. His very existence depends on it.
In some ways, he’s like a submissive in a club scene. The care I take in torturing him is the same. So is the planning and clean up. My knowledge of the map of veins and blood vessels in the body comes in handy when cutting into a victim or whipping a sub.
It’s always satisfying when skills in one area extend to another. And the power rush I feel when I’m a dom or a killer is exactly the same.
So is the way the submissive or victim begs and pleads. Different levels of desperation but intoxicating all the same.
I let my footsteps fall harder on the cement floor so Adam hears my approach.
“No, please,” he whimpers. Asking for mercy he would never give to another.
I strip off my gloves, setting them aside. I’m careful not to leave DNA, even though there’s a whole arm of Roy Industries devoted to cleaning solvents that dissolve all evidence from a crime scene.
The end is coming for my victim and coming soon.
He shouldn’t have attacked my little bird. Not while I was watching. My protection extends retroactively and into the future, now and forever more.
When I own something, I like to own it completely.
“I have to go,” I tell him. “But don’t worry, I’ll be back later. In the meantime, the rats will keep you company. They love the scent of fresh blood.”
He moans, but he knows better than to talk back. If the last twenty-four hours have taught him anything, it’s that.
I leave him tied to the chair.
