Page 27 of Dark Side of the Cloth

“I’m sorry, I do not understand that command. Would you like to try another?”

Dean smirked at the vehicle as he got out. “Sexy, set the alarm, code-word Yasmine.”

“Code-word set, alarm engaged.”

“Good girl,” Dean mumbled. Melding into the darkness, he slinked toward the back of the building then silently broke into a jog. The night was cold, but there was no snow here, which would help him avoid making tracks, easier. He spotted the rusty Chrysler vehicle with the old wood-paneled sides. It glowed like a goldish piece of shit in the dim light. A very distinct car nowadays. No one was inside, the windows were not steamed, and the hood was as cold as the evening itself.

Good, the guy must be inside. Dean didn’t know if the guy worked nights here or if this was one of his play areas, but he was about to find out. Why prostitutes still got into this cocksucker’s car was beyond him. They all talked to one another. Even the ones that hated each other still had a code when it came to sick fucks like this.

Dean had only glanced over the arm’s length of complaints and arrests on this prick, yet, he’d easily spotted the words sexual assault over thirty times. The charges would never stick, the girls never followed through. Being a prostitute meant that you were never taken seriously when it came to sexual assault. Dean didn’t agree with that, but the law was flawed, which was why The Righteous existed.

The lock was nothing fancy, just a standard cylinder style, and he pulled out the small case of lock picking tools. He could blow the lock off, but he preferred to have surprise on his side. This was a mission that required a silent, in-and-out, or he would draw too much attention too early and not retrieve the answers he sought. The door clicked, and he gently pulled it open to reveal a dark cavernous space filled with all sorts of crates.

He felt at home in the pitch black. Like a black panther, he stalked his prey from the shadows. This dark space before he killed those who deserved it, was where his soul lived. His father always told him that he had what it took to lead, to kill, and to do it without guilt.

Dean’s rage bubbled under the surface of his skin like it did every time he thought of his father. He hadn’t wanted to believe the fucker. His father would pat his head and tell him that he was his Pequeno Asesino. His father had seen the depravity burning in his heart, and he didn’t want to believe it. He didn’t want to think that he was anything like his psychopathic father.

But, he’d been right, at least about the lethal portion. You didn’t become a demon of death by being weak. You became one by turning your mind, body, and soul into a perfect killing machine and by turning off your morality and doing the job you were assigned without question.

“Sexy, turn on all visual features,” Dean whispered, and the screen over his left eye began to flip through the settings.

“Hold.” He was able to see through the walls of the building, and two heat signatures appeared much further down inside the building.

Well, the man definitely wasn’t working.

Picking the best route, he jogged into the belly of the beast. As he drew closer, he was able to hear soft whimpering and a distinct cracking sound of a whip as it echoed after each strike. Hiding amongst the shadows, he crouched low by the last of the towering shelves to take in the scene.

A young woman was stripped naked and hanging by her arms from a pulley attached to a winch in the ceiling. She swung like a slab of meat, her dirty feet barely skimming the floor. The girl’s long, sparkly earrings were the only things she wore and made a strange contrast to the tableau before him. Her back was riddled with angry red welts and already drying blood from the night’s abuse. A ball gag was strapped around her face, muting her whimpers and tear-filled cries as another blow from the leather bullwhip snapped across her back with a loud crack. The woman’s slim body arched as blood splattered across the floor. Dark eye make-up stained her cheeks as her strangled wail reached him.

“You like that, whore? Oh, I bet you’re fucking wet for me now!” Another crack, more strangled whimpers. The guy paused to give his cock a few strokes, shoving his hand crudely down his pants to do so. He grunted, and Dean’s lips peeled back in a silent snarl.

“Bet you won’t turn your nose up at the next cock you’re paid to suck. That’s the problem with women these days—they don’t know their place.”

Slipping the large knife out of the sheath on his chest, he stalked toward his prey.

“Say it! Say you want my cock in that bitch mouth of yours!”

The woman mumbled helplessly around the gag, and the guy laughed hard, his beer belly shaking. “No, you don’t want to say it?”

The man was completely focused on his sick task and raised his arm to inflict yet another blow.

Dean roughly grabbed the man by his wiry, greying hair and jerked him back hard as he kicked out the man’s knees. Shock stopped the man from yelling as his body slammed to the concrete floor, his whip rolling away. He let out an oof as the air rushed out of his lungs. Dean knelt on the man’s chest and held the massive blade against his throat.

Dean studied his prey’s features—light blue eyes that were wide with confusion, a ferret-like face that only a mother could love, and unkept balding hair that stood in all directions.

“You and I need to have few words, but first.” Dean yanked the man by the hair until his feet scrambled to keep up as he was dragged toward a large piece of machinery.

The man’s shock was wearing off, and he began to fight. In his prime, he may have been a medium threat, but he’d let himself go over the years and was reduced to no more than a rodent with a beer belly. His legs annoyingly flailed as his hands smacked Dean’s much stronger fist.

“You’ve gotten lazy picking on defenseless young women. Big mistake.” Dean roughly twisted the man around. The man letting out a loud yelping sound as the little bit of hair he had left tore from his scalp.

Now with the sicko in front of him, Dean slammed his free fist into the soft tissue of the man’s stomach and followed it up with an uppercut to his face. The man’s head rocked back, his teeth clamping shut and jawbone crunching as fist met bone.

That definitely broke something. And Dean smiled at the thought.

Dean had to contain his wild rage, or he would kill him too soon. Dean threw the man up against the massive conveyor. Sheathing his knife, he quickly secured his hands above his head with large zip ties. Dean then secured his legs. Once satisfied, he searched the man’s pockets until he found the car keys.

He wandered toward the wide-eyed woman, his eyes scanning the area for her clothes. She was visibly shaking, but he had to give her credit—she didn’t make a sound. Spotting the meager articles that she’d been wearing, typical clothing of her trade, he scooped up the small glittery pile and turned to grab the lever that controlled the chain. Gripping the handle, he pulled back, and the machine whirred to life, slowly lowering the woman to the ground.