Page 5 of The Trick

We barely make it out of the motel parking lot when he begins to flap his lips, mumbling about God knows what.

Feeling increasingly agitated by the mere sound of his voice, I reach for the stereo dial. “How about some music?” I interrupt, twisting the volume dial up to max volume. Metallica’s “Enter Sandman”vibrates the truck, drowning out Byron’s rambling.

My tongue swipes across my lips and I’m about to start humming along to the lyrics when the music that was just vibrating the speakers abruptly stops.

I slam my foot on the brake, causing an unbuckled Byron to tumble forward. His head makes a loud thud against the dash. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” I shout. As if I don’t harbor an immense amount of hatred for him already, he now has the nerve to touch my stereo? Which was just playing the song that helps me get in the zone before I commit murder?The fucking audacity.

“I asked you a fucking question, Byron.” My chest is now heaving, my pulse a beating drum in my ears. Consumed by rage, I extend my hand, clenching my fist around the scratchy linen of his sweat-dampened shirt.Gross.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” I repeat, releasing the hold I have on his shirt and instead moving my hand, squeezing his chin in my direction so he’s forced to look at me.

“I-I-” he stammers, but the pressure I maintain on his face has his cheeks squished together, making it difficult for him to answer. His cheeks hollow as he tries to part his lips more so he can answer. Growing tired of his pathetic stuttering, I release my harsh grip on his chin.

He inhales, sounding unexpectedly relieved before he continues to speak. “I just wanted to ask where you were headed,” he says, suddenly sounding more coherent.

Shit.

The truck begins to roll forward and it’s then that I realize I lifted my foot off the brake.

“Fuck,” I release a throaty groanas I throw the truck into park. The hasty motion causes both of us to jolt forward in our seats.

“Mad, I was just trying to help. When your mom called me, I thought you–”. His words are cut off by my large palm wrapping around his neck.

“Don’t you dare mention my mother. Ever. Got it?” A terrified nod springs from his head. Tightening the chokehold, I have him in, I gaze directly into his sullen eyes. “I mean it,” I grit, increasing the hold my fingers have on his airway for a few seconds more before letting go.

He gasps for air while I twist my torso from where it’s facing him, so I’m now aligned with the steering wheel. My hand dances around the driver’s door compartment until my fingertips are met with the cool leather secured to the handle. Curling my fingers around the leather, I straighten my posture.

“Maddox,” Byron breathes, still sounding winded “I’m–”

“You’re what?” I interrupt. “Are you sorry, Byron? Is that what you are?”

With the amount of blood on this man’s hands, all in the name of making himself richer, he should be sorry. Not like I’m in a position to talk, but at least the blood shed by my hands is justified. It’s for the greater good of those who fall victim to monsters like him. Rich cowards who lie and steal from those less fortunate, using people’s weaknesses to his advantage. He’s the criminal, I’m merely an exterminator. Eradicating him like the pest he is.

“Were you sorry when you had my father killed?” The words feel like poison to my system as I mutter them. I always knew Byron Campbell was bad news. But after Cam gained credible intel from a former employee of his who obtained a voice recording confirming Byron’s involvement, he practically signed his death certificate.

I turn to look him in the eyes. Curious to see what he will do or say now. But when I look at his sunken face, all I see is a liar and, when he opens his mouth, all I hear are excuses.

He continues spewing some rehearsed garbage he must have memorized in the event that his tower of lies begins to crumble like it is now, but it’s useless. All I hear when he speaks are my own internal thoughts. All I can focus on is my knife that is now lifted from its position at my side to where it is gliding past the steering wheel, just waiting—no,cravingthis fucker’s blood.

“Oh fuck,” Byron bellows, trying to reach for the passenger door handle.

“Sorry buddy, not going to escape this one,” I beam, slowly inching the gleaming steel blade towards his torso. His rancid breath filters its way to my nostrils as he begins to inch away from me, pressing his back against the door that won’t open.

Looks like child locks don’t only come in handy to keep little shits from opening car doors.

“Pl-please,” he pleads. “I-I was ju-ju-st trying to help him. He was sick–” he lies, but his words mean nothing to me.

I’m no god, I don’t give a flying fuck about redemption. Let alone his hollow pleas. What I want is blood in exchange for the hell he put my family through.

“You know how you can help me?” I ask, driving the angled tip of the blade into his gut. “It would be so helpful if you could shut the fuck up and stay extra still,” I say through a grin so wide, my fucking cheeks hurt. He gasps from the force that I drive the steel into his abdomen, making sure it not only slices his skin but begins to cut through his intestines. Ripping the knife out for a second, I revel in the blood that begins to pool fromthe gash on his torso, staining the light linen of his shirt. Knuckles white against the leather handle, a satisfied grin remains on my face as I drive the edge of the blade in and out of him.

I know Cam’s specific instructions were that the head be delivered sans body and it will be, but I’ve been dreaming of being able to kill this sorry sack of shit, so I think a few more stabs to the gut will suffice. Then once I’ve had my fix, I’ll drive him over to the quarry and it’ll be off with his head.

Rivulets of blood seep past the fabric of his shirt onto the plastic tarp as his lifeless body slumps against the window. I reach over him, snagging the seat belt to buckle him in, that way he doesn’t bop all over the place the rest of the drive to the quarry, since we didn’t quite make it there before we said our goodbyes.

Fuck, that felt good.

Relishing in the absence of Byron’s voice the rest of the drive, I decide to indulge myself in some music again. I turn on the stereo and, to my surprise, “Enter Sandman” is playingagainand just in time for the best part, when the beat picks up fifty-five seconds in.

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