He moved into the wrong place if he thought someone was going to care about his cries for help. This apartment building is devoid of hope and care, no one here worried about anyone but themselves. The residents here are just trying to survive. Sticking their necks out for other people won’t happen when they’re probably in a bad spot themselves.
It’s the only reason I decided to kill Denton here. Even if someone calls the police, it will take authorities close to thirtyminutes to send a squad car out. When the cops knock on doors to ask questions, no one will talk, so the cops will leave after a while without much investigation. As long as I’m done before the half an hour is up, I won’t be caught.
I follow Denton at my own pace, but I regret letting him get away when I just miss him swinging a bat at my head when I enter his room. His drunken swaying is the only thing that alerts me to the weapon, and I drop my knife so I can catch the aluminum before he smashes it into my skull.
Faster than I thought possible, Denton drops to one knee, grabs the knife, and takes a swipe at me. It catches the leg of my pants but doesn’t break skin.
Denton curses and I knee him in the face, making him crash back onto the floor. His cry is garbled, then turns high-pitched when the fumbling fucker impales himself with my sharp-ass blade.
Tsking, I walk over and kick him in the face as hard as I can. His head knocks back and he shrieks, the sound like nothing I’ve ever heard before. I close my eyes and relish it for a moment before I stomp him the fuck out.
I kick him everywhere I can reach, giving him everything he used to give his wives. Something I wish I could have done to my father before I gave him a quick death. I didn’t need the police asking too many questions.
Denton begs and cries as I bring my heavy boots down on any part of his body I can reach. “Please! Please stop! I swear I ain’t mean it! I ain’t?—”
“Fucking liar,” I huff as I bring my boot down on his face. It stuns him, his eyes fluttering, his neck loose on his spine. “You’re going to die now. Any last words?” I ask, though I don’t give him time to answer before I kick him in the mouth.
Denton groans, then turns to the side, lazily spitting out a tooth fragment.
I grab my knife from the floor and look at it gleam in the soft bedroom light. Then I slide it in its sheath and pick up the bat. Kicking him onto his back, I straddle either side of his body. Then I raise the metal high over my head and bring it down, over and over on his scalp.
After the fifth strike, Denton stops moving, but I keep going until my arms get tired. Then I hit him one more time for good measure.
When I toss the bat to the side, Denton’s face is unrecognizable, brains splattered on the floor behind him, blood making a halo around his head. Unfitting, since this fucker is going straight to hell.
“I’ll see you there, Denton,” I mutter, spitting on his corpse. I’m not worried about DNA being collected. By the time anyone finds his body and actually removes him, he’ll be a fucking mummy.
I go to his bathroom and clean the blood off my face and hands, being sure not touch anything in this shithole. I’d have to get a tetanus shot.
After I wash my face, I check myself in the filthy mirror. My forehead is red from where I head-butted Denton, but I’ll have my makeup artist touch that up before the event. Other than that, I’m good.
Drying my hands on my hoodie—which doesn’t really help, since there’s blood splatter dotting the front—I leave the way I came.
Once I hop off the fire escape ladder, I stuff my hands in my pockets, duck my head, and take the alley between buildings to get back to my car.
That kill was long overdue. I’d done my research on Denton, seeing that he got off not once, but twice after he killed his wife, claiming self-defense. The piece of shit lawyers that weresupposed to put him away failed both times. It was up to me to ensure Denton never had the chance to re-offend.
It’s the first kill I’ve had in a while, the first time I’ve been able to get messy instead of using my sniper rifle to pop someone from afar. I’ll have to do it again, soon. Adrenaline thrums through me as I think about the kill, rewinding it in my head over and over. Pretty soon, I won’t be content with killing from a distance. I need up close and personal. I need to feel…mortal.
When I slide behind the wheel of my car, I check my watch and curse. I have to get back to the city in time for some charity event my agent signed me up for. I hate these events. It’s always just a room full of rich old people trying to one-up each other.
Most of the charities they donate to are shell companies for their families’ wealth. The whole vibe is sleazy, but if I want my charity for domestic violence—one where Iactuallydonate one hundred percent of the proceeds—funded, I have to rub elbows and make these fuckers with more money than God pay the fuck up.
I wish I could kill the lot of them, but I can’t help survivors if I’m in prison.
I snort. I could wind up in prison for any of the murders I commit. I’m careful, but it only takes one slip up.
I shake that thought off, wanting to ride the high of the kill. I’m not sure when I’ll get another.
Chapter Two
Hill
“Mora, Mora, over here!”I shout to a super model that looks every bit of twenty-five at nearly fifty. There has been speculation for years that she’s had work done, but if she has, it’s flawless. Her deep brown skin glints off the lights of the ceiling, her makeup applied to perfection.
She moves down the line of paps, posing for a moment before heading inside the venue. A few other models, actors, and socialites walk into the building after posing for photos, none saying more than a few words to us lackeys assembled out front.
Fuck, I need a quote. Just a quick line from literally any of the models or socialites or celebrities that are in attendance so I can go the fuck home. I hate these damn events. It’s like a feeding frenzy, everyone talking over each other and pushing and shoving to get to the front to be noticed.
