I rotate my head. The room is plain white walls and bare of furniture—not a doctor’s room. A sudden whirring sound vibrates behind me, and I swing my gaze over my shoulder. The man holds a pen-like instrument with a black vial in his hand before leaning forward. An abrupt sting ignites a burn just below my shoulder. Tiny pinpricks nip and tear into my skin. He’s tattooing me. I grit my teeth, my fingernails digging into my palms as he works on me for how long, I have no clue.
When he finally stops, I’m shaking, my palms clammy from being clenched so long, my skin a fiery burn. Breathing hard to calm my palpitating heart, I drop my sweaty brow to the leather seat. I hear him cross the room and I lift my head to watch as he stokes the fire for a bit. Then he turns and my eyes widen recognizing what he’s holding. While walking back to me, he pulls his bandana over his mouth and nose. His eyes, however, stay locked with mine until he’s standing over me.
Even as I stare, the tears don’t come, the panic in my chest from a moment ago dies to a mere flutter, the ache in my bones now just a twitch, the burn in my shoulder nothing but a glowing ember and the fight in my throat swallowed by collected saliva.
I died in that single moment.
And when that red hot end of the steel rod he’s holding hisses against my skin, marking me, and the stench of burnt flesh fills the room, I don’t need any verbal or physical confirmation to know. Someone will pay.
My eyes snapped open as my body jolted awake. I sat up, running a hand through my hair. My skin clammy with perspiration tingled with the light breeze blowing through the open window. The woman, whose name I couldn’t remember, stirred next to me but didn’t wake. Climbing out of bed, I walked into the en-suite bathroom and after using the toilet, I splashed cold water on my face. With my palms resting on the edge of the sink, I stared at my reflection.
I’d come a long way since all those fuckers desecrated my soul, but that nightmare persisted. Reliving those integral moments as though it were a reminder that I hadn’t sought the revenge I needed.
Straightening, I turned slightly and eyed the area just below my shoulder blade. While tattoos spread from shoulder to shoulder hid it, only if you looked closely and knew what you were looking for, would you recognize the emblem he’d seared into my skin.
I might’ve unleashed my brand of evil on the world, but I’d left that fucker for last. I had something special for him and he didn’t even know it.
“Soon.”
1
EIGHT YEARS AGO
Zayne aka Gabriel (29 years)
I tugged the collar of my jacket up to shield my neck against the bite of the mid-November chill. It was cold and wet, miserable dawn breaching the divide between night and day. Sleet whistled through the tall buildings, collecting on the roof tops of downtown Seattle. Low-hanging dark clouds promised another bitter day. Every few seconds a piercing wind rushed through the empty spaces blowing sleet like misguided smoke from a fire gone wild.
Some would question my logic to be out in this weather. But in my life, every day was hunting season. It never stopped and a case of you snooze you lose always circled me like wolves around a prey. Only, I never snoozed and I sure as fuck never lost. Those that knew me, knew I never slept when a game was in play. I hunted, I played and I fucked while I waited but I was always ready. I’d tracked my latest mark for the last three days and the routine remained the same—not even a moment of change.
Remembering Sam’s words during my training, I chewed my bottom lip.“Your closest ally is attention to detail. Your worst enemy is routine. Don’t forget that, boy. It leaves you open, vulnerable, a fool for the taking. Like using your birthday as your ATM pin.”He’d drilled those words into me since I was fourteen.
Scoping out the rooftop, I walked around until I found what I needed. I looked over the edge and cocked a brow. Eighty-four floors off the ground weren’t child’s play for the squeamish but I enjoyed the fucking thrill out of it. Setting the black case on the floor, I opened it and proceeded to set up my toys. Two minutes later, I dropped to the ground and lay flat, stomach down. Immediately the cold skimmed through my woolen coat and three-piece suit, nipping into my flesh. Years of practice had me instructing my brain to ignore the bite with a clenched jaw.
After another three seconds, I stuffed the earbuds into my ears, effectively blocking out the mid-dawn traffic below. Nothing but the sounds of silence playing a calming tune with my heartbeat as I slowed it to what a heart surgeon might call a dangerously low rhythm. But that was my fortitude, acquired through refined training and repetition. This time was no different as I channeled my focus on the building sitting a thousand six hundred yards parallel to my position. More significantly, on the suited buffoon making his grand entrance through the dark brown door into his posh office. I could’ve taken him out anywhere between him waking in his bed to him wanking off in the office bathroom a minute ago, only the instruction was precise.
Shifting the tripod, I canted my shoulders, slid the rifle up in one smooth motion, and locked my arms in place, giving the weapon the ideal support and leaving no room for the smallest distraction. My thumb flicked up. Safety off. Sliding my eye behind the scope, I adjusted, aimed until I had his head in the intersection of the cross hairs, and waited, counting.
