I’ve been scouting this rural estate for weeks, and the only things of any particular interest are the fawns who are currently fighting to prance in the large pile of leaves, and the only structure on this property that is not in a state of disrepair.
Looking away from the deer, I refocus my attention on the behemoth of a building that I’ve deduced is the hunting ground, confirming that whoever Nyx is, they know how to wring an answer out of a person.Literally.
If it were any other circumstance, I would find the lame pun funny, but I lost the joy in my “Dad jokes,” as Emi would call them.
My ears perk up when one of my cameras picks up the distinct sound of a motorcycle engine.
“What do we have here?” I mutter as I watch a lean, curvy body hop off an all-black BMW R 1250 GS with matte red trim. “Fucking beauty.” Whoever this is knows their stuff. With this terrain, a bike that can take a beating and still kick ass on the highway, that baby right there would be one of my top choices.
Sitting up from my perch, I give my undivided attention to the new arrival, trusting the rest of my equipment to alert me if there’s any action.
With smooth fluidity, she stashes her bike out of sight, but she makes the rookie mistake of not hiding her face when she takes her helmet off.
“Shame on you?—”
My words get caught in my throat when hazel-green eyes that are more green than hazel land exactly where I’m tucked away. I know she can’t see me, but I feel like she’s stripped me bare. High cheekbones, pouty, plush, bow lips, and long, flowing onyx hair. She’s fucking stunning.
Mouth agape, with I’m sure some drool, I can only look on as she fixes her hair into the back of her black jacket before putting on a balaclava. Then I watch as she checks her surroundings once more before disappearing into the woods.
From camera to camera, I watch in awe of her efficiency. “So, you’re not new to this,” I mutter to myself.
Thirty minutes later, she’s on her own perch on the opposite side of the barn, higher and closer to the same building I’ve been staking out. The rifle-like bag I missed hangs hidden.
“But what are you up to out here, little fox?” No sooner than the words pass my lips, five sensors go off.
It looks like I’ll have my answer soon.
Tati
Three years ago…
Stay cool.
I inhale, trying to ground myself. I know I fucked up on a few things tonight, but I don’t have time to dwell on that. I know my brother and his friends will be arriving in approximately twenty-six minutes.
Like most idiot serial killers, they’re habitual. I have a running theory on why most serial killers are men, and it has more to do with ego—nurturethan it does with evolution—nature. Because women were—arehunters too.
Are men more likely to commit a violent crime?
Yes.
However, I challenge the idea of what is considered violence. The physicality, the actual harming of someone with some object, is indisputable, as they are the visible markers of harm being committed. But psychologically—the cerebral torment, I argue, is a form of violence that can do more harm and leaves lasting invisible scars. And women—we like to play with our toys before we break them in a way that is unseen by the naked eye.
I swing my duffleover my shoulder, hooking it on one of the closest and sturdiest tree branches while I continue to use my philosophical rant as a grounding technique. Because why count when you can theorize the validity of what is deemed violence and how it’s used to profile serial killers.
Settling into my spot, I double-check that everything is in its rightful place.
Night scope binoculars—check.
Shurikens—check.
Guns, garrote wires, and knives—check, check, and check.
My gaze shifts to the most important item.Guilie.I run my hand along the black duffel. Its contents are often believed to hold a sniper rifle. And while I do enjoy the long-distance kills, it’s less satisfying than the up-in-your-face exterminations. The kind when I get to hear the screams as the barbed wire from my bat rips flesh from the bone like a lioness in the wild.
The screech of brakes announces my prey.
Glancing down, I watch as the black Dodge Ram 3500 stops just outside the gate to the property. It’s soon followed by a black Chevy Silverado 1500 and a black Ford F-150. The Ford has the trailer with this year’s victims for theirhunt.
