Page 355 of Rage

It makes sense, though. He was shooting a rifle, not an automatic weapon. He wasn’t blasting off dozens of roundstoward us, he was aiming. Those bullets lodged in Rhett’s chest and never left.

I refocus on the man. His name is Whitman. Once I discovered his identity nearly six months ago, my plan truly began to come to life. I had the help of a hacker, thankfully, or I never would have found him.

About eight months ago, I was sitting on the living room floor, browsing sites I had no business browsing. I started chatting with a hacker, whose name I still don’t know, and one thing led to another. Eventually, I had the name: Whitman. The hacker didn’t want any payout or any credit for their work. It always seemed suspicious to me, but I took a random, albeit stupid, leap of faith and prayed it wouldn’t kick me in the ass later on.

It was probably, no,definitely, a bad idea, talking to an unnamed hacker who seemed to know more about the situation than I did, but at the time, I didn’t give a fuck. I still don’t, not really. I have one thing on my mind: revenge. I will harness that revenge if it’s the last thing I do.

Whitman leans against the front counter, his elbows against the wooden top with his head hanging between his shoulders. I wipe my mouth, pushing away the tray that once held the best pizza of my life, and cradle my chin in my hands as I lean against the table. He has to be leaving soon.

Finally, Whitman pushes against the front counter, letting himself rock back on his heels. He lets out a low whistle, probably pissed that the grandmother of the mafia didn’t fly out to take his order. He turns to leave. I smooth my jacket down my chest and subtly check the gun in my waistband. After making sure it’s still secure, I begin to scootch across the red leather seat, toward the aisle.

Before I stand fully, I quickly pull a crumpled twenty from my pocket, followed by two fives. I placed them under the rim ofthe large tray so the grandmother of the mafia can easily locate them. I don’t know the exact protocol for tipping someone of her nature, but surely a few extra bills won’t offend her.

Whitman exits. He’s outside, most likely rounding the building. I’ve scoped it out enough so that I can predict his patterns. He will turn left and head for the alley off the side of the street. While I haven’t interacted with Whitman at all since the fatal day of the shooting, I’ve been watching him.

With the help of my friendly hacker, I’ve been given access to cameras that are placed around the streets near the pizzeria. I can sit in the comfort of my own shitty apartment, headphones on, and laptop in my lap and just observe. Many times, the hacker friend will join me in a voice call and we chat. They use a voice app or something to synthesize their voice. I assume they’re a man, but I could be completely wrong. We’ve never video chatted or seen one another.

They’ve been a rock this entire time. Without them, I would have never found Whitman and I definitely wouldn’t have been able to garner access to the cameras.

Whitman most likely doesn’t even remember me, honestly.

He’ll know my name after tonight, though.

Chapter Eight

Katherine

The evening air is crisp and heavy with possibilities. I walk briskly, but not quick enough to garner any unwanted attention. There are men posted on every other corner. I assume they’re the Sandman’s men. This is their part of town, and they keep their presence seen. I avoid catching anyone’s attention as I come up to the mouth of the alley that I know Whitman just sauntered into.

The alley is…well, an alley. There are a few garbage dumpsters scattered around and more trodden cardboard than I could have imagined. A small family of racoons skitters about near one of the dumpsters, their tiny freaky hands carrying old food. I watch where I step, careful to avoid any plastic or debris that could give away my location.

Whiteman is roughly fifty feet ahead of me. He walks with an atypical gait, indicative that his previously broken leg is bothering him. Good. I can work with that.

I quickly shorten the distance between us. At twenty feet, I let my hand roam along my waistband.

At ten feet, I grip the handle and halt abruptly. I’m still silent as a mouse, my steps light and quick. I keep my hand on my weapon as I draw it from my waistband and pull it to my side.I keep the nose of it pointed down, my pointer finger twitching toward the trigger.

“Whitman,” I nearly yell out his name.

He stops, stock still and suddenly taller. I maintain my composure. I’ve worked too fucking hard to fuck this up now. I swallow any lingering fear, letting my stomach acid bobble around before dissolving it.

Whitman faces me. His face is covered with shadows, like a masked man. But I know better. I know his pock-marked face, his shitty excuse for a beard, and his wayward eyebrows that are in desperate need of a trim.

“Who the fuck are you?” His voice is higher pitched, an ounce of vulnerability seeping into his words.

“You don’t need to know my name,” I respond callously.

He scoffs, “Whatever, bitch.” He turns to walk away, wanting to ignore me.

I’m not willing to be ignored.

The cold metal of the gun bites into my skin.

“Turn around or I’ll put a bullet in your ugly fucking head,?” I scold.

Whitman turns around, not hiding his laugh as he cups his mouth. “You on something, girl? What’s your poison?” He begins stepping toward me.

I stand my ground, refusing to give him any hold over me. I have a plan. I came here with one intention only.

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