Page 7 of Captured

I had a little time on my hands, even if my stomach had already started to rumble as it did every time I went to work.

“I think it’s time I show you why I’m here. Would you like that, Michael?”

“Uh-huh.” He was sweating profusely, his eyes glassed over as he tried to focus with the wash of light filtering across his desk. The man had good tastes, the bloodwood surface rich in color, whatever the woodworker had used to protect it adding to the deep sheen.

Then his eyes opened wide as if recognizing me. Men like me were considered urban legends, ghosts with no identities.

With one exception.

The scar I carried with me.

He touched the side of his face, as if the marred tissue on my cheek hurt. His lower lip was quivering, his mind reeling from the understanding that I was the thing nightmares were made of. I’d originally worn a mask when I’d shifted careers, but the scar allowed my presence to be known, another layer to the legend created and expanded on. People did so love to tell horror stories about monsters crawling through the darkness.

There was something incredibly exciting about the way he was staring at me, unable to put his words of terror into a sentence, let alone a profound one.

While he was shifting from foot to foot nervously, I took my time pulling a folded set of pictures from my Armani suit jacket, pushing both sides open as I laid the photographs out carefully in front of him. I had to admit whoever took the pictures was fairly skilled, the vivid images leaving nothing to the imagination. They were also real. I always took the time to ensure I wasn’t being provided a load of crap.

“Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck. Oh… Fuck. Where did you get these?” At least he was beginning to understand the error of his ways, as horrible as they were. Sweat dripped down his nose mixing with the blood I’d created on his face when I’d knocked him to his knees after he’d tried to assault me with a butcher knife. Who did that any longer when there were so many more refined methods of killing someone?

“Does it really matter?”

He twisted his mouth in frustration, staring at the photographs as if they were ready to bite him. Oh, they were. “No. What do you want? Is this about blackmail?”

I snorted, unable to help myself. “Hardly. This is about you being the worthless piece of scum that you are. Preying on young girls that way. You should be ashamed of yourself.”

“I am. I swear to God, it won’t happen again. Please. Just give me one more chance.”

His pleas were almost identical to two dozen others I’d heard recently. They always promised to do better. He was lucky I hadn’t gouged out his eyeballs with my sharp knife for fun or ripped off his fingernails one by one.

Yet, anyway.

I was still uncertain exactly how I wanted to handle this particular contract. It was more than obvious I was bored. Maybe I needed a vacation, something one of my clients had advised me to do. But where would I go?

“It’s not up to me, Michael.”

“Then who?” The dickhead was genuinely confused.

“Your partners. They grew tired of covering for you.”

“Bu… But…”

“But what? This isn’t you in these pictures?” I held one up and he looked away. I didn’t usually snap at anyone. That simply wasn’t necessary but this fucker had already tried my patience. “Look at the goddamn picture, Mickey boy. I don’t want to be forced to tell you again. You won’t like me if I get pissed off. Capisce, brother?”

He nodded five times then planted his unfocused eyes on the photographs. I might enjoy the hell out of killing people for a living, but I did have integrity. I drew the line at human trafficking of any kind, especially when minors were involved. One day I might have a daughter and the thought of a fucking worthless predator snatching her off the street, selling her to the highest bidder was reprehensible.

Even to a man like me.

“Okay. Okay. I get it. I can pay you anything. I’ll walk away. I’ll never touch another girl again.”

“No, you won’t.” I was going to be nice, let the guy off the hook, and only put a bullet in his brain, clean and easy. But then the bastard decided to snatch a paperweight from his desk, smashing the hard crystalized rock against my forehead. That was going to leave a bruise. I was clocked to the point of seeing stars, which was what good ole Michael was hoping for as he attempted to race around the other side of the desk.

This was a no-brainer.

I grabbed his arm easily, tossing him down on the desk, momentarily placing the gun on the wooden surface so I could reach for my knife. The air was knocked out of him, his eyes opening wide in another wave of terror as I drove the serrated blade of my favorite knife into the side of his neck, angling it up just enough to slice through his carotid artery.

The blow would be fatal, the bastard eventually dying on me, which was the point to the signed contract, but slow enough I’d have the joy of watching his miserable life drain from him. The fucker was pathetic, gurgling apologies as blood sprayed across my hand and arm.

Damn it.

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