Page 5 of Unholy Bonds

I thought Phil was his target, but maybe it was the girl. Some predators hunted only the weak. Gritting my teeth, I strolled out, following the snake tattoo and the woman he so gallantly saved. The chilly night wind quickly embraced me with frozen fingers. I pulled my coat tighter, searching for him through the drapes of darkness.

The girl shivered; he removed his jacket and handed it to her. With a smile, she put it on, looking comfortable in his presence.

“Thank you. You saved me. I don’t know what I would have…” Her voice broke.

She didn’t deserve to be lured by another man who was giving her a false sense of security, only to have the safety net yanked from beneath her.

Fuckwad.

“It’s alright,” he said as they walked toward the almost deserted road.

“You’re a godsend. You truly are.” Her voice was so certain. He laughed.

“It’s something anyone would have done.” He was good at this.

How many times had he played the hero to lure some unsuspecting prey? This might not be the first time.

“Nobody else did. I’m Isabella Ross.”

He stopped when they reached the side of the road. I grabbed the small knife I always carried inside my purse, thumbing the hilt, waiting for him to make a move. The moment he did, he’d find that knife stuck in his spine.

Two cabs passed. He let them go. He whistled for the third one—an accomplice?—and the cab came to a halt in front of him.

I wanted to scream at Isabella to run, but I watched. It wasn’t time yet.

“Take her home,” he said to the cab driver. The driver was a woman.

Handing a few dollars to the driver, he motioned Isabella to get in. With a smile, she entered the cab and waved at him.

“Good night,” she said, and he nodded.

“Good night, Isabella. Don’t worry about Phil.”

With his hands buried in his pockets, he stood there watching as the cab disappeared into darkness. Then he turned back toward the pub.

I trailed behind him, smiling now, wondering what he might do next. For the first time in my life, I was excited about something other than my own kill.

Who in the hell are you?

3

END GAMES

RYDEN

The stench of alcohol and sweat smacked me in the face when I walked back into the pub. I was following up on a story a few weeks ago when I found this pub. I immediately knew it’d be a good place to get lost, a good place to never be found. Nameless. Faceless. Completely unrecognizable.

Ryden Sinclair was a man everyone knew, but most of the patrons of this bar wouldn’t recognize me, and that suited my needs fine—I craved anonymity.

Tonight was my first time here, and what a fucking first time it was turning out to be.

Fucking Phil.

I took a chair at a table behind him and continued to watch. Phil, inebriated, remained at his table, drinking more beer. His hand lingered a little longer on the waitress when she served the drink. She was uncomfortable, but from her resigned look, I knew this wasn’t new. He must be a regular here.

In my twisted rule book of morals, I considered rape the worst of it all. I instinctively knew Phil was capable of that.

Being an investigative journalist had its perks, especially for the bloodthirsty side of me—I often stumbled onto criminals who used money to get out of a justice system that was broken and ‌flawed.

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