Page 14 of Any Means Necessary

Roscoe cuts the red tape securing his left wrist to the chair. Kellen yanks against the other man’s grip on his arm—eyes wild, yelping and begging.

Pitiful.

“What the fuck are you doing? No, stop!” Kellen shouts, struggling violently.

Growing irritated with handling our guest’s panicked flailing, Roscoe slams his fist into our rodent’s stomach. Caving against the power of the punch, Kellen folds in on himself like a rag-doll. Suddenly, there’s no fight when Roscoe lifts the hand to his clippers.

Slotting the pinky between the sharp blades, my enforcer looks back at me for the go-ahead. I hold up a hand for him to pause, stepping closer to bend over the man in the chair.

“Every time you miss your precious finger, you’ll think about how much of a goddamn coward you are for taking children.”

With that, I give the signal.

The wet crunch of slicing flesh and severing bone sounds distinctly in the silent room, punctuated by Kellen’s scream of agony. Cut down to a nub, the pinky falls to the floor in a spray of blood. The yelling only lasts a few minutes before fading into mournful moaning and settles on catatonic silence. Job done, Roscoe steps back to wipe the blood from the clippers and tucks them back into the black bag.

My head tilts, feeling not an ounce of remorse as I gaze down at the subdued form dripping blood on my crisp plastic sheeting. I’m sure he’s committed acts that deserve far worse, but Lottie is the only job I’m here for. Letting my repulsion motivate me would only cause unnecessary problems, it’s a lesson I’ve learned a hundred times over. Something my father and the rest of The Family have yet to realize. Violence has its place, but there are better ways of getting what you want—and they usually require a lot less sacrifice.

“They say confession sets you free. Do you feel any lighter now?” My taunting tone barely earns a slow blink against his swollen eye. The lights are on, but no one’s home.

Standing to stare at the display of retribution sends a wave of satisfaction through me. I came here for answers and I’ll be walking out with results. Watching Kellen Gatz the kiddie-snatcher bleed was a bonus. A pretty fucking good one.

After a few minutes of silence, I turn on my heel to head to the door. I got my name, it’s time to keep moving forward. As much as I enjoyed watching the mutilation, I can’t let Kellen leave with his bone exposed. Blood trails tend to bring unwanted public attention and questions from authorities I don’t intend to answer.

“Where you going, boss?” Roscoe calls after me. I pause in the doorway.

“Without Tony, we need a new medic. Our pretty pink nurse is about to try out for the position.”

Chapter Four: Lexie

The knocking turns into pounding as I shuffle my way through the darkness toward the bedroom door. When I open it, the light that spills in from the hallway practically blinds me. I can’t help but squint up at the man standing on the other side in confusion.

“Callum?” He stares down at me, dressed and alert like it isn’t the middle of the night. There’s no reason for someone to look so hot at this hour, it’s almost as blinding as the hall light. “What’s going on?”

He scans me head to toe, from my long messy braid to my pajama shorts and bare feet, before his focus moves past me. A voice sounds softly behind me. “Who’s in here with you?”

My eyes follow his gaze, brain lagging. “Oh, that’s just the tv.” The response is sleep-addled and delayed, but it’s the truth.

“You’re watching tv?” Those piercing hazel eyes are pinned back on me now.

“I fell asleep watching something.” Again, technically the truth. He doesn’t need to know that I can’t sleep without something playing, like a toddler needing a nightlight. Rubbing the sleep from my eyes, I change the subject. “Do you need something? Why are you knocking on my door at three-thirty in the morning?”

“I need you to come with me.”

No idea what I was expecting Callum to say, but that’s not it. I blink a few more times—once, twice—processing. He waits calmly, observing and assessing while I absorb.

“What?” I need more information. It’s too damn late for this. Or is it too early?

“Someone needs medical attention and I’m borrowing those skilled hands of yours.” Again, not what I was expecting to hear. Someone needs medical attention? The questions are already forming.

“Is someone hurt?” I ask. His eyes roam from my face, looking pointedly at my silky powder blue pajama set. I follow his gaze, barely registering my attire before bringing my eyes back to his.

“Put on your scrubs, Doc. We’re leaving in five.”

My brain still fighting through the fog, I leave Callum in the doorway and shuffle into the walk-in closet. Digging through my nightmare of a suitcase, the first pair of scrubs I find are pastel pink. Whatever, scrubs are scrubs. My braid is too messy to save, so a finger-brushed ponytail will have to do. Tugging on mismatched socks and shoving my feet into my ASICS, I’m still securing my hair into an elastic when I emerge from the closet.

Callum’s large frame fills the doorway, muscled tattooed arms crossed. The sleeves of his crisp white dress shirt are rolled up to his elbows, something he seems to do often out of habit. As soon as his suit coat comes off, his sleeves are being rolled up. The intricate ink covering his muscled arms are in stark contrast to the crisp color of his shirt. I can see the shadow of where the ink continues up his skin beneath the fabric. Do his tattoos cover more than just his arms?

“Pink, huh?” There he goes with those eyes of his again, taking in every single detail.

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