With that, I drop my guard and allow him to move closer, making it seem like he’s going to make his kill. When he takes a step forward, knife outstretched, I grab his wrist, twist him around and bury it in his chest.
The man jolts, a howl leaving his throat. Just to be a dick, I twist the knife, knowing it’s overkill, but whatever. He started it.
“Who sent you?” I ask, though I know the answer.
“Robert…Bening…” he releases a long breath and goes limp in my arms.
I drop him, then stumble back, playing up my reaction for the camera. “Help!” I scream again, fumbling in my pocket for my phone. “Help me please!”
I call 911 and wail into the phone, letting them know that I was attacked, and I think I killed someone.
It sucks that I’ll be under a microscope for a few weeks—maybe months—but it’s the price I’m willing to pay to send a message to Beningfield: He might think he can reach me, but I’m fucking untouchable.
After I get off the phone with dispatch, I call Menace, still crying though I hope he reads through the bullshit. I let him know what happened and he says he’ll be here shortly.
While I wait, I go over to my car in our well-lit parking lot, just in case Beningfield was smart and hired a backup for his fucked-up assassin. But I doubt it. When people look at me, they only see an eccentric journalist that spent way too much moneyon tattoos. They don’t know that I will lay a motherfucker out without losing a wink of sleep.
Sirens blare and cop cars screech around the corner. I roll my eyes. They can chill out; the threat has been neutralized.
The cops rush over and I affix a vacant look in my eyes and point to the alley. “He’s back there.”
There’s a bunch of commotion after that, the scene full of cops, medical examiners, and press. I hide my face only after they’ve taken a few shots of me with tears and blood covering me.
Clifton comes back, a look of bewilderment on his face as he walks up to me. “Jesus, he made good on that promise.”
“What promise?” a detective says, walking over to us.
“Robert Beningfield the fifth,” Clifton says with attitude. “He threatened my journalist today. In front of the entire office. Now look! This is a nice area! No one would come after anyone here without reason.”
The detective jots down some notes, nodding as Clifton gives him play-by-play of what happened and Beningfield’s exact words.
Twenty minutes later, Menace arrives and I rush into his arms, playing the grieving victim. He holds me and shushes me while I bury my face into his chest, grinning at everyone’s stupidity.
“I’m so sorry, baby,” he whispers as cameras shutter nearby. “You okay? Can I take him home?” he asks the nearest detective.
The one that took notes comes over and points to the cameras mounted on the corners of the building. “From what Mr.Reacher showed us on the cameras, it looks like a clear sign of self-defense. But we’ll need to go down to the station and get his statement.”
Menace growls, but I place a hand on his chest as if to calm him. “It’s okay. I’ll go. Anything to get this nightmare over with.”
“Can I drive him?” Menace asks.
“Yes, sir, you can. We’ll be there shortly. Here’s my card in case I forget to give it to you later.” He hands me his card and Menace escorts me to his car.
When I’m behind his tinted windows and we’re a few blocks away, I huff and wipe my face, checking myself in the mirror. “That motherfucker has to die. Quick,” I say.
“He’ll meet his maker sooner than he thinks. I have a plan.”
Taking his hand, I grin and say, “I really love you.”
“Right back at you, little psycho.”
Chapter Nineteen
Menace
“This place is a fucking castle,”Hill says as we walk through Beningfield’s foyer. I tut, but he’s not wrong. The walls look to be made of fucking stone, the windows high and thick, and the staircase looking as if it’s made out of the fucking wall.
From my research, it’s been in his family since the early eighteen hundreds, when they came over and made a name for themselves. There have been a bunch of changes since then—a basement added in, appliances upgraded, and an entire wing added on in the past hundred years.
