He doesn't beg. Or even try to talk when I bend down and untie him. And once he's unsecured, he falls over sideways.
I pull the sawed-off shotgun from my hip and point it at him. "If you think I'm going to carry you, you're mistaken. Would you like a chance to save your life? Or should I blow your head off right here?"
It's a true Helix moment for me. Because it's a lie.
Ryan's head wobbles as he tries to find my face. His eyes squint, trying to see me properly through the backlighting. But he doesn't answer.
"Do you have any idea how quickly ants would consume your body out here? How quickly they could strip the flesh from your bones?"
Still, he says nothing. Just continues giving me the old Jesus-Christ-Superstar look.
"Ask me how I know this, Ryan."
"Who…" his throat is so dry, he can barely speak. "Who the fuck sent you? Huh? What do you want? Money? Is it money? Did Larson send you? Was it Larson? I told that fucker, I've got his girl. She's lined up for next month. These things take planning. You understand, right?"
I nod. Solemn. Because I actually do.
Ryan takes this nod as affirmation. "So itisLarson?Fuck. What the fuck? Why is he such a psychopath?" He narrows his eyes at me. "You gonna tell him I said that?"
I cross my arms, shake my head, and press my lips together. "I don't even know who fuckin' Larson is."
"What?" Ryan's brows get so crinkled, they practically touch in the middle. "You just said?—"
"No,youjust said. I just agreed that I do understand how these things go. In a way. In a very specific way that doesn't involve anything of the kind of what you actually do."
"What the hell doesthatmean?"
I'm holding the sawed-off with one hand as I bend down, take a fistful of his hair in the other, and press the barrel against his chest. "It means that I absolutely understand how hard it is to find suitable candidates for one's…hobby. Except, it's not a hobby for you, is it Ryan? It's a business."
I yank on his hair as I stand. Forcing him to scramble to stand with me. Then I push him out in front of me and say, "Walk. Follow the trail."
He doesn't.
He's not used to this. The loss of control. It's new to him. He just stands there, looking at me with his fish-mouth gaping, trying to work out what the actual fuck is happening right now.
He'll never work it out. He so far behind. I'm running a masterclass in predator-prey dynamics and he still thinks this has got something to do with an order some Larson guy put in for a girl next month.
Obviously, that's not what this is about.
So I pull the trigger.
The shotgun round blasts out the twelve-inch barrel with a deafening crack that echoes through the trees, and the trunk of a pine just to the left of Ryan's shoulder explodes in a spray of bark and splinters. Wood fragments pepper his face. He flinches—finally—stumbling sideways with his hands up like that'll stop the next one.
I tilt my head at Ryan Adamson as I rack the sawed-off. Curious. What is going through that head of his right now? "Do I need to ask you again?"
He shakes out a no answer, then turns. His bare feet stumbling on the path as he limps forward. His fingertips automatically scratching the bloody bites all over his naked body.
Ryan proceeds, his naked body weaving between trees as I chuckle when his feet catch on roots and rocks. I watch him flinch when branches scrape his insect-ravaged skin. Enjoying it.
I'm already planning how he dies.
Slow. Obviously. But not elaborate.
The barn will do fine. Concrete floor. Drain. Hose. The cameras are already installed—six angles, motion-activated, cloud backup. I'll record everything. Archive it. Maybe I'll watch it later when I'm thinking about Scarletta and need something to push me over the edge.
My cock thickens against my zipper.
I picture Ryan strung up from the ceiling beam. Bleeding out slowly while I explain exactly what he did wrong. While I describe in graphic detail what Scarletta looks like when she comes.
