Page 52 of Rugger: The Huntress

“Thanks for the invitation. I can take it fro–”

“No. No you can’t, actually. You can have a seat and enjoy the show. When ready, I’ll let you know.”

“Rather, I’m not here for a fucking show. I’m here for answers.”

“Yet, I’m the one with the special guest. Sit down, Rugger.”

“No.”

“Then, I guess you’re dismissed.”

I stood, facing my sister as she paid me little attention. With a shrug, I removed my gun from my waist, aimed it at her guest and closed the gap between us all.

“Remove that shit from her mouth, Rather. You can play voodoo doll later. I need answers and I need them before she passes out from the level of pain you’re inflicting.”

I didn’t miss the dramatic roll of her eyes or the mumbling under her breath.

“Remind me to never invite you to the party again. You ruin shit.”

“You know why I’m here. Don’t act foolish. Now, take that out of her mouth before she ends up lifeless and we both have to explain to chemistry why there’s a bullet in her head.”

THREE

I peered across the street and through the gated yard for the third time. Still, there was no movement. The small opening in the privacy bushes offered a clear view of the driveway near the basketball goal I used to practice drills that had college recruits knocking at my parent’s door for two years in a row.

Any minute, now.

I lowered my gaze to the computer screen again. The face of the woman who had occupied my thoughts for two and a half weeks was plastered on the screen. Like a semester exam, I studied her profile daily. The accolades she’d received at such a young age were impressive.

Not only was she a forensic scientist, but she was also a hell of an engineer. She understood the law because she was employed by the government, using forensics to her advantage and theirs.

Right underneath their noses.

Her resume was formidable. She showed up to their labs daily to learn all she could about their process, operation, and capabilities so she could use them to strategize cleaner kills and keep her name off their radar. Somehow, though, not even that could keep her out of their line of sight. Though it wasn’t her slip that landed them on the list of the most wanted, she was there.

Was.

I sipped the black coffee in my hand. Technology had always been my weapon of choice. Erasing their existence from the government’s database was almost as easy as handling the last two cases before they were added to her body count.

To my surprise, their evidence on the syndicate was minimal. Speculation was all they had mastered in the case and began building from there. Until months before The Chemist’s arrest, they had no idea who he was working with and at what capacity. The evidence pool began to shift once they learned it was his sisters running the operation.

However, everything they’d gathered could easily be googled. Names, occupations, birthdays, associates, and the list went on with more undeveloped research and findings. They were moving blindly even after capturing the most notorious leader in Clarke–and surrounding cities.

I cut my eyes toward the home I spent my childhood in once again. This time, I watched the garage door rise inch by inch until it revealed the aging face of my father. His presence was unkind to my spirit. It was assaulting, unhealthy, and downright damning, but I was unable to detach myself. I’d attempted too many times to begin making sense of it.

Like clockwork, he appeared from underneath the garage door the final Saturday of the month to wash the bi-yearly gift I left in his driveway. Too afraid to scratch his paint or dent a rim going through the automated machines, he preferred hand washing his whip. The Hellcat he’d had for the last eight months was serving its purpose.

The boost of adrenaline was just what my old man needed. At only fifty-two, he was in his prime. Retirement was near and he had an abundance of time on his hands. Trips to the track kept a smile on his face and fulfilled me in the process. I never had the pleasure of joining him, but I always watched from afar.

I closed the computer and sat it in the passenger seat of the van I’d purchased less than twenty-four hours ago from a cleaning company that was going out of business. I replaced the large screen for a much smaller one. I entered the number that hadn’t changed since I learned it in kindergarten.

122-855-4114

Before beginning the message I’d repeated in my head a hundred times or more, I found myself contemplating my next move. I locked in on him once again. The water hose was in his hand and the hood of the car had begun its bath.

As his only son and only child, finding ways to keep him informed had always felt necessary and difficult at once. The cars he received every two years were to let him know that I wasn’t on the streets, begging for bus fare, or looking for a handout from anyone. They were also a way to let him know I was alive and well.

My head lowered, focusing on the screen in front of me. The message box prompted me to enter words that struggled to escape me. Hesitantly, I began typing.

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