Tearing the box open, my eyes land on a jar, and I squeal, jumping on my bed before I remember the contents of the jar could spill.
“Deputy Chief Zachary Wailin,” I spit. The name, like a poison coating my tongue. This fucker makes crooked look straight when compared to him. His hands are steeped in blood—his pockets lined with the rich criminals who make him willingly ignore the unspeakable horrors the rich and powerful commit each day.
“Sometimes you need to fight evil with more bloodshed, don’t we, Lettie?” Her hazel eyes take me in, already knowing where this is going. “They say violence only begets violence. But I say sometimes you have to knock some sense into a bitch with a barbed-wire bat for them to understand that if they go low, I go past hell.”
Pointing to the jar, I continue, “Case in point, Zachary Wailin.” This poor excuse of a man beat his wife senseless, countless times, before he raped and killed her with the other twisted fucks he rubbed elbows with. My eye twitches thinking of the images of what was left of her. It was plastered all over the news. There was so much irrefutableproof. His wife’s family went through all of the proper legal channels to get justice.
Did they get it, though?
“Fuck no,” I snap, catching Lettie off guard, and in true feline form, I get her version of awhat the fuck, Taliaeye roll before she hops off the bed, slinking across the room and curling into a ball by the window.
So, you could go that route… butwhy would you? The justice system favors those with money and plenty of it. Prisons are filled with the wrongfully accused and convicted, while the most vile of humankind sit down for their six-course meal charity galas under the guise of raising funds for the needy, when it’s actually one of the largest human trafficking rings worldwide.
Is vigilante justice not still justice?
Eyeing the hand floating in the jar, my skin heats, imagining how Brax killed him. I can only hope it was slow and painful.
Did he scream with terror and pain?
That thought makes chills run along my spine.
Did he make him swallow his balls?
My nipples tighten, the cool air making me increasingly aware that I needed to come.
Springing off the sofa, I stride toward my ruby red custom-made Tantra Chair, placing my new gift front and center. Pressing the remote, a circular hole opens, revealing my mechanical dick. Then, I gather all my supplies, stopping before the jar and peering into the dead fucker’s eyes, and exclaim, “Why buy a woman flowers when you can give her heads?”
Brax
Inhaling, I bask in her natural musk, trying desperately to merge it with my own.
Mine.
The overly controlling and possessive side of me wars with the rational one that knows in five more minutes, I’ll have to take the guy out of the trunk and drop him and the car back to the rendezvous.
To see her in that silky dress that did nothing to hide her perfectly supple and perky breasts, ripe for sucking nipples.
My cock tightens in my pants, and I know I’m going to jerk off to her a few times tonight. But this time I won’t be alone.
Excitement for later has me speeding through the streets of Darien, Connecticut. I’m fifteen minutes from the scheduled checkpoint.
The Ring’s Edge Bridge comes into view, and I slow to a stop. Without checking my watch, I know I’m almost out of time.
Hopping out of the car, I stride to the trunk and pop it open, grateful to see the driver still knocked out. Then he’s over my shoulder and buckled in the seat. Poor bastard will have a hell of a headache, but he won’t remember anything else. And I don’t have to worry about him blabbing about the missing time because he’s already on thin ice.
I take a final perusal of the scene, ensuring I didn’t leave anyevidence of foul play. Satisfied that nothing’s out of place, I jog over the bridge and down the trail to my bike.
The engine roars to life, and I have to fight the urge to pull out my cell and track her. Finding a modicum of self-restraint, I smirk, remembering what I saw dangling from her wrist. I didn’t think my little fox would keep the charm bracelet.
Sliding my helmet on, I replay tonight’s events as I take off. The mission was essentially a gift for Keres, but someone fucked it up.
My body moves with the curve of my bike along I-95 before the Welcome to New York sign comes into view. I’ll be home in another fifteen or twenty minutes, give or take.
Replaying the information Haruki briefed me on before I left, this should’ve been a cakewalk kill.
So what went wrong?
“Call Haruki,” I command, and it barely rings before he answers.
