“You still with me, Furt?”
His glassy eyes gaze up, and his skin is chalk white. His chest is still.
I don’t think he’s breathing.
I rest my fingers along his neck, checking for a pulse. Nothing.
“Well, that’s rude, Senator. Leaving before I’ve finished my act.”
One by one, I carve the remaining pieces into his body, from his chest, all the way up to a poorly-swirled ice cream cone on his forehead. Luckily, his bleeding is minimal.
All things considered, it’s not too shabby. I take a moment to admire my handiwork. Blood smears along his legs and arms to the point I can barely see those designs, but the images get clearer along his torso, neck, and head.
Satisfaction rolls through my muscles at a job well done. I feel ten feet tall. Invincible. Like I’m fucking Superman.
I can’t eliminate evil—but I did eliminate one evil man. People think murder is the worst crime of all. Sure, it’s terrible, but sometimes it’s justified. Kill the one to save the many.
Those kids will be safe, at least for a little while. I have to believe that. Otherwise, I’ll spiral.
Furt’s clothing soaked up most of his blood, which worked like a dream. Who knew designer wool was so absorbent?
Careful not to step in any red stuff, I rinse my knife off in the kitchen sink before grabbing a tea towel from the oven handle and wrapping it around the knife. I’ll bleach it properly when I’m home. In the meantime, I don’t want any of his blood ending up in my bag. An ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure, as Dad used to say.
Opening my bag, I pluck out a copy of the bill from a Ziploc bag along with a red Sharpie. Setting it onto the counter beside Furt’s corpse, I scrawl out the words in my non-dominant hand in an intentionally odd way.
“Thanks to you, this is the only operation most Americans can afford. Kill it, or you’re next.” Capping the sharpie, I toss it back into my bag and pull out my little vial of gunpowder, leaving a circle around the document as some of the powder mixes into the blood pooled on the counter.
Now that’s a work of art the American education system should be proud of.
“Voilà!” Turning to Furt, he stays, well, dead.
I shake my head in disappointment. “Nothing? Oh, come on. This is art. Give me something to work with, Senator. I’m dying over here.”
And of course, his corpse remains still.
Admittedly, I would have shit myself if he’d moved, but come on, that would have been badass if he sat up and started clapping.
Dropping my empty gunpowder vile and Ziploc bag in my backpack, I scan the floor, double-checking that I didn’t leave any footprints in the blood. My two-sizes-too-big shoes squeak as I strut my flipper-sized boots to theback door.
“Laa-gàawn. That’s goodbye in Thai.” I give my new friend a wave goodbye before strolling out his back door. I hustle across the backyard to the pickup truck I have parked behind the stables.
Of course, this rich fucker has horses. I bet they eat better than I did as a kid. Fresh apples and carrots, and all the healthy vitamins and minerals they need. I doubt his horses ever starved because they couldn’t afford a damn box of pasta.
I can’t believe I’m jealous of a fucking horse.
Tossing everything into the passenger seat, I peel my gloves off and drive away, careful not to speed off and spook the spoiled horses on my way off the senator’s Texas estate.
Twenty-one hours. Twenty-one hours on the road until I’m back home. I’ve got a stop planned in a small Podunk town in Arkansas to get some shut-eye, then a long drive ahead of me tomorrow. Right now, I could use a Big Mac and a nap as the adrenaline wears off.
Maybe this time, Congress and President Fox will listen.
If not, Daphne’s going to hate me. Because, with each kill, her dad moves closer to the top of my list. I didn’t think things with her would get this far. Soon, she’s going to know I lied to her.
I can live with blood on my hands, but I don’t know if I can live with Daphne Fox hating me.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
DAPHNE
