Page 12 of Deadly Little Sparrow

“Can’t handle your liquor, huh? Normally a little bit of a fight is half the fun, but this’ll do.” He nudges me with the toe of his leather boot and then the metallic clang of his belt buckle reaches my ears.

My thundering heart slows. In a single instant, it feels like everything is happening in slow motion. My mind is sharp, my senses all on high alert, and the moment crystallizes. As far as this man knows, I’m some naive, barely legal virgin passed out in the alley. Is this what Benny’s last minutes were like? Except, he wasn’t faking it. He was helpless, unable to move or defend himself, and these monsters got off on it. They didn’t care if he lived or died. They didn’t care about anything other than their own sick pleasure.

None of them deserve the oxygen they’re wasting every second they go on living. How many lives have they ruined? How many have they taken?

I clench my jaw and tighten my grip on my dagger, counting each excruciatingly long second as Velcro comes closer and closer, a fly buzzing stupidly into the web I’ve woven. He grips my shoulder roughly, preparing to roll me over.

I’ve practiced the movement so many times, I’m sure I could do it in my sleep. But unsheathing my knife with an actual target leaning over me comes with an unexpected rush of adrenaline that forces a gasping cry from my throat. I plunge the sharp end of the knife into his throat without pause, drinking in the shock and fury in his eyes as he gurgles and then collapses.

I scramble to my feet, hot, sticky blood coating my hand. I gasp for breath, my lungs burning like I just ran a marathon in an all-out sprint. I look down at his body with a mixture of disbelief and relief. His pants are hanging open, his dick already out, leaving no room to wonder what he planned to do to me.

I take a step closer, looking down at him as the light slips out of his eyes. For the second time tonight, I remember the apathy in The Phantom’s eyes when he would take a life. There’s no apathy here. This doesn’t feel a damn thing like squishing a bug or acknowledging in a vague way that death is simply an inevitable part of life. It feels… good. Maybe that should scare me. And maybe that makes me no better than the pile of shit lying dead in front of me. But there’s no denying that the world is a better place now than it was five minutes ago, and that’s because of me.

I’m tempted to spit on his corpse, but you know, DNA evidence and all that. I stoop down and yank the knife out of his throat, dodging the spurt of blood that erupts like a geyser in its wake. I pull a monogrammed handkerchief out of my back pocket, chuckling to myself at the contrast between the life I used to live and this one. I wipe the blood off the dagger, slipping it back into its sheath, then cleaning off my hands before stuffing the handkerchief back into my pocket.

“I mean this from the bottom of my heart, Shit Stain, burn in hell.” I flip the middle finger in front of his unseeing eyes, then stand up straight and stride out of the alley before my luck runs out and someone comes looking for this fucker.

I smile to myself, imagining his friends finding him shortly. I want them to run back to the club and tell everyone about his brutal murder. I want every single member of the Sleepless Reapers looking over their shoulders everywhere they go. I want to be the ghost that haunts their nightmares.

One down, three to go.

The feeling of being watched prickles along the back of my neck again. I rub my hand over the goose bumps that stand up there, but I don’t bother to look over my shoulder. If someone is watching, they can run and tell the Reapers exactly who took out one of their own. Let the “biggest baddies in town” cower from a little sparrow.

XAVIARO

If I weren’t already aware that I’m a tad bit fucked in the head, the throb in my cock as Sparrow wipes off his knife and tucks it away would have been all the proof I needed. For the past three weeks, I’ve chalked up my interest in him to curiosity. And by interest, I obviously mean I’ve been following his every move to the point that I’m well on my way to getting on Enzo’s shit list. The word ‘stalking’ has crossed my mind a time or two, but I prefer to think of it as doing my job.

Enzo expects me to know what’s going on in Wildcliff, and some sexy, unhinged assassin out for Reaper blood is front page news as far as I’m concerned.

When he sat down at the Reapers’ table tonight, I was curious to see what he had planned. The way he played Velcro like a fiddle from the moment the man took notice of my little sparrow was like a work of art. It was a perfectly choreographed dance that the cocky gearhead had no idea he was even part of. It was… impressive. Sparrow was impressive.

I melt into the shadows and watch him strut out of the alley, leaving the body out in the open without so much as a backward glance. Fuck.

The Sleepless Reapers may be vile scum, but they aren’t stupid. Velcro didn’t see it coming tonight, but if word gets out that there’s someone after anyone else in the club, he’s going to have a hell of a time taking them by surprise.

Besides that, a body is the last thing we need. Dead bodies attract the cops. Too many dead bodies will be difficult for even the cops on Enzo’s payroll to overlook. If I call anyone else to deal with this, it’ll get back to the boss one way or another. So I guess I’m going to have to roll up my sleeves and do this myself.

I step deeper into the alley, half my attention down the street with Sparrow. Was he as affected by Velcro’s hands on him as I was tonight? I was tempted to clear the bar and shoot the man myself every time he stroked a finger over Sparrow’s cheek or bare arm. I grit my teeth again just thinking about it.

I stand over the man, coolly assessing the scene. A pool of dark crimson blood is seeping into the cement underneath him, his eyes wide and unblinking. Even in the dim orange light, his skin looks pale and waxy. I sigh heavily. I fucking hate disposing of bodies. The fluids, the dead weight, it’s the murder equivalent of folding laundry. The job is done, why are there now more chores being added to my list? Except, you can’t just leave dead bodies piled in baskets in your bedroom until you get around to dealing with them. Looking at you, Dahmer.

The metal door that leads to the bar swings open with a loud clang, and I whip my gun out in a single motion, pointing it at the man standing on the other side. His eyes go wide and he holds both hands up immediately.

“Go back inside. Don’t say a word. Please and thank you,” I instruct calmly.

He doesn’t move a muscle as the door swings closed again right in his face. I chuckle at the visual, then holster my gun again and get to work.

I don’t want to criticize my new favorite murderer, but I wish his first victim had been slightly smaller. Dragging two hundred and fifty pounds of dead weight out of the alley and then stuffing it into the trunk of my car isn’t my preferred workout. I have enough trash bags and duct tape on hand to wrap the body, but not before the bastard bleeds all over my suit. Another reason to despise body disposal. It’s not wardrobe friendly. At least my shoes were spared.

There’s not much I can do about the blood on the ground at this point. Without a body, it’s more than likely that the bar owner will hose it down in the morning and hope like hell no one shows up asking about it. And I doubt any of the drunks will give it much thought.

I swing the trunk closed and fish my keys out of my pocket.

As soon as I’m outside of the city limits, I roll down my windows and turn up my favorite playlist, drumming my fingers on the steering wheel and crooning along with the lyrics. I may have a body thumping around in my trunk, but that’s no excuse not to enjoy a beautiful night like tonight.

I reach the nearest Moretti Family dump point in about half an hour. It’s a ravine outside the city with a river at the bottom. I unwrap the body from the bags before I roll it over the ledge. I know the waterways are already clogged with litter, but I could never live with myself picturing birds and fish having to eat their way through plastic just to get to the body.

With the task done, I toss my soiled suit jacket into the trunk along with the bloodied bags and hang a U-turn to head back to the city. Without conscious thought, I drive straight for Sparrow’s building. Now that the problem of Velcro’s body has been solved, he’s the only thing on my mind.

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