Page 1 of Hemlock

Prologue

Hemlock

Warmth covers my hands, and I know for most people the deep red staining them and the scent of damp iron filling the air would probably freak them out.

My body has the exact opposite reaction. It's only when I'm in full control, holding another person's life in my hands, that I'm able to reach even a modicum of serenity. It's the only time my heart rate lowers, allowing me to hear more than just my pulse pounding an uneven rhythm in my ears.

With my eyes closed, I lift my chin upward, drawing in a deep, relaxing breath.

The man on the other end of my blade isn't as lucky.

His breathing is ragged, labored, and the sound of it, the power of being the one to decide when that last breath comes, makes everything return to an even keel in my world.

"We don't have the information we need."

I pull in one more deep breath before reopening my eyes and looking toward another Marine.

He points to the man as if I'm unaware of his declining condition.

"I know what I'm doing," I say, my voice full of warning.

I fight the urge to cover his body, to position myself in between him and my prey, but I learned long ago that no one wants to do what I do. They're quick to ask for help, but the depravity that is required to get information when someone doesn't want to talk has been left to me for years.

The other Marines keep their distance. They whisper when they think I'm not listening. I know how they feel about me. I know they sleep with one eye open when we're not on base. They fear me as much as the man sitting before me does.

"Ruiz, get back outside," Sergeant Rawley snaps before turning his full attention to me. "We need the coordinates for the secondary location. Can you get that for me, Hemlock?"

His question has much more to do with needing to know what headspace I'm in and less to do with my skills at pulling information from someone.

I swallow, once again fighting the dominance inside, urging me to protect my latest project.

Jameson Rawley is the only Marine I've met that doesn't turn green when my skills are needed. He's also been the only one to make me believe he understands the needs raging inside of me. He knows how thin of a moral line I skate.

"I can get that, Sergeant," I assure him.

I take the clap on the shoulder for what it is, a wordless job well done before I even complete my task, because he's that confident in my abilities.

I stand a little taller. The commendation is exactly what I need to continue my work without taking things too far.

This man will never step foot outside again.

He'll never see another sunrise.

He'll never know that when he detonated the bomb that killed two of the men in my unit, it also killed his wife and two children.

Well, he may know that last part. I'm also no stranger to a little mental torture, although the physical shit is my specialty.

I tap the tip of my blade on his cheek, but it does nothing to rouse him.

Being intimate with the stages of death, I know he looks worse than he actually is. Although, he's only a handful of slices from begging for death, and that's exactly where I need him to be. That's when he'll give me exactly what I want to know.

His eyes flutter when I carve a line down his left cheek, but then he stills.

I take a step back, rage bubbling inside me when I see his lips moving, as if he's praying to whatever god he believes in for either mercy or a miracle. This man doesn't deserve either.

Two United States Marines will be heading stateside in body bags to their grieving families because of this piece of shit.

Leaning in close, I pull in a deep breath.

---