Page 90 of Vengeful Rotten Casualties

“Okay.” That’s it then. “Make it hurt.” I reach down and grasp her free hand, deftly sliding the flash drive from her grasp. She lets it go without a fight, her acceptance and trust there in every breath she takes. The human Micki is back and one thing I’ve learned is that humans are far more dangerous when they’re controlled by their emotions than when they’re cold. She can do what she wants to him, and I’ll be here for it. She can lose control because I’m here and I’ll always watch her back. I’ll make sure she gets her justice, regardless of the cost.

“You take care of him, pretty girl,” I say, leaning down and pressing a kiss to the side of her head even as my eyes flash to my father, “and I’ll take care of everything else.”

37

MICKI

Luc moves awayfrom me and Thomas’ eyes track him. He’s got the flash drive now. He’s goteverything, and Thomas realizes that. My hand never moves. My finger remains on the trigger. I adjust the barrel to the side and press down. The gun goes off again and Thomas screams as his knees hit the ground.

That’s what he gets for ignoring me.

Even now, even like this, after everything—he’s not concerned with what I’m doing. Why the hell do I even want to make him look at me? Because he never has? Not even when he was fucking me? I was never real to him. I was an object. A tool. Well, look at me now, huh?

“Cocksucking bitch!” He clasps his hand over his arm as blood pours out through his fingers and down the length of his shirt. My mouth is dry, the taste of metal and rain filling all of my senses. Luc doesn’t even stop or look back longer than a second—just enough to make sure I’m alright, I’m sure.

I’m not alright. I’ll never be alright so long as Thomas Kincaid lives. I lied to myself—thinking I would be. It was stupid to think that I wouldn’t appear in front of him and be able to hold myself back from doing this. The fantasy of him living—even if it’s in jail for the rest of his life—is just that … a fantasy.

If he’s alive, then there’s always a chance. A chance for him to escape. A chance for him to hurt others the way he’s hurt me. I’m not so naive, either, to think I’m doing this for them, though. For the invisible, no doubt countless, other victims he’s had over the years. I’m not a fucking hero—not for them. Not even for myself.

Always the victim, never the hero. That’s fine with me. I never wanted to be the hero. Heroeshaveto be good. I want to be even. I want justice.Truejustice.

As if he senses my internal thoughts, Thomas shuffles on his knees, tipping his head back and through gritted teeth he speaks. “You don’t want to do this,” he hisses through his pain. “You don’t want to be like me, MiKayla” I stare down at his upturned and slightly hopeful face. “You don’t want to kill me.”

“You’re wrong,” I tell him. I’ve never wanted anything more in my life. Not even my freedom. “But if you wanted mercy, then you’re out of luck.” A breath sticks in my chest. “There is no mercy left in me,” I tell him. “You made sure of that.”

“What the hell do you want then?” he demands. “You want money? Fine. Take it. You can run away and hope like fuck I never find—”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” I cut him off. A laugh bubbles up inside of my chest, but it’s full of loathing and pain. No amusement. “For me to just disappear. Is that why you sent her away? Yourdaughter,” I remind him. “The proof that you fucked up? You got your whore pregnant and you didn’t want the reminder?”

“She’s probably not even mine!” Thomas roars. He would’ve checked. The second my sister was born, he would’ve had a paternity test done.

I shake my head. “I’m not fucking stupid, Thomas,” I say, holding the gun up as if to prove my point. I chance a glance to the side as Luc takes a seat at Thomas’ desk, noticing the slight wince and the way he shifts. Is he hurt? If he is, he hasn’t said a damn thing about it. Instead, he focuses his attention in front of him and turns on the computer, plugging in the drive. Thomas follows my gaze and his eyes widen—true panic forming.

Ahhh, I see. Luc is smart. I’d wanted to force Thomas to be the one to formulate his own downfall—to upload all of the evidence and send it out. I guess it doesn’t have to be him, though. The world just needs tothinkit is.

“What the fuck are you—”

I aim and pull the trigger again as Thomas tries to get up and move towards him. A bullet pings off the floor and Thomas jerks back. “Back to me, Thomas,” I say, taking another step towards him. I’m so close, I can practically smell his blood mixed with that ungodly rich cologne of his.

He snarls my way. How the fuck did I think I could get away from this without killing him? I didn’t have nearly the same visceral reaction to killing Eric and Andrew the way I do staring down at the living, breathing form of Thomas Kincaid.

I can either fight this urge or I can accept it. I can either fear the truth or control it.

Right now, I don’t want to fight it. I don’t fear. I just want…

“—the girl,” Thomas snaps, drawing my attention. “You want the girl, right? Take her. I’ll tell you where she is.”

I snort, but before I can respond, Luc speaks up from the desk. “We already know where she is,” he says. “Try again.”

“Fuck!” Thomas presses down harder on his arm. The blood is starting to pool beneath his limp fingertips, running rivers of red. I wonder what he’ll do if I shoot his leg too? How long does it take someone to bleed out if they’re shot multiple times? What if he loses too much blood?

“Hmmm.” I hum in the back of my throat and pull the trigger anyway.

The bullet slams into his upper thigh and he screams again as he bends down, his forehead nearly to the ground. His back bows up and down as he heaves in breath after breath. My brow creases. The underlying itch—the buzzing sensation of unfulfillment—eats away at my insides. Why isn’t it enough?

I grit my teeth and pull the trigger again. The gun jerks against my palm and wrist. This time the bullet slams into the ground next to his leg. Damn it. I’m too close. I definitely shouldn’t have missed.

Panting, I feel sweat collecting on my brow, on my upper lip. “You can’t buy your way out of this,” I tell him.

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