“We did our job,” the snake-faced one says with a shrug. “Nothing personal.”
Nothing personal. They cut my father’s throat and it was nothing personal.
The rage burns brighter now, hot enough to push back the fear. I take a step toward them, my hands clenching into fists. “You want to finish what you started? Come on then. I’m not hiding in a closet anymore.”
The middle one laughs, actually laughs. “Oh, you have more fire than your father ever had. Good. That’ll make this more interesting.” He nods to his companions. “The trunk.”
“Fuck you,” I spit. “And fuck your trunk.”
It happens fast. The big one lunges for me while the snake-faced one circles around. I dodge left, my heels skittering on the hardwood, but there’s nothing to grab, nothing to defend myself with in the empty space. I aim a kick at Truck’s knee, but he catches my leg.
“Let go of me, you knuckle-dragging mouth-breather!” I twist in his grip and manage to rake my nails across his face, leaving four bloody furrows down his cheek.
He roars and backhands me hard enough to make my ears ring. “Crazy bitch!”
“That’s the best you got?” I laugh, tasting blood. “No wonder it took you five years to find me.”
The snake-faced one circles closer, grinning. “She’s got a mouth on her. Just like daddy did before we shut him up.”
Pure fury floods through me, white-hot and blinding. If I ever get the chance—when I get the chance—I’m going to kill these fuckers slowly. I’m going to make them beg. I’m going to make them understand exactly what they took from me.
“You want to know what Peter’s last words really were?” the middle one asks, pulling out a syringe. “He said ‘please don’t hurt my little girl.’ Pathetic, really.”
I launch myself at him, all claws and fury. “You lying sack of—”
The big one grabs me from behind, trying to wrestle me towardthe trunk. I sink my teeth into his forearm, biting down hard enough to taste blood.
“Fuck!” He jerks back. “She bit me! Like a rabid badger!”
“Get her in the damn trunk!” the middle one snaps.
I thrash wildly in Truck’s grip. “I’m going to shove that syringe so far up your ass you’ll be sneezing chemicals for a week!”
But even as I fight, the needle slides into my neck. The middle one’s cold smile is the last thing I see clearly.
“Nothing personal,” he says, echoing his partner’s words.
The world starts to blur at the edges. My legs feel like they’re made of rubber, and I stumble, trying to keep my balance.
“No,” I slur, trying to fight the drug coursing through my system. “No, you assholes, I’m not... I won’t...”
But I’m already falling, my vision tunneling down to a pinprick of light. The last thing I see before the darkness takes me is the steamer chest, its mouth open like a hungry beast.
The last thing I think is that I should have run the moment I felt him watching.
I should have listened to the fear.
Chapter Four
Blue
The axe knows when death is coming.
I can feel it humming against my palm where it rests on the passenger seat, the Damascus steel blade singing a song only I can hear. Fifteen years of spilled blood have taught me to trust that song, and right now it’s screaming that something’s about to go very, very wrong.
The street outside Sara’s building looks normal enough—a few pedestrians shuffling home from work, parked cars lined up like sleeping metal beasts, the usual symphony of urban decay. But something feels wrong. The air tastes metallic, charged with the kind of tension that comes before violence erupts.
I adjust my grip on the axe handle, worn smooth as silk from years of use. Most killers prefer guns—clean, distant, professional. But there’s something honest about an axe. When you split someone’s skull with forty inches of hickory and steel, you have to meanit. There’s no taking it back, no claiming it was just business. It’s personal, intimate, final.
