Page 55 of Killer Clone

After that failure, I’d gone back to the warehouse and collected what was left of Patrick Marrion’s blood. By now, it had turned thick, half solid in places, gelatinous in others. It didn’t flow anymore, but that didn’t matter. I’d fix it.

I cut the bottom off a plastic water bottle and scooped up as much of the dark, coagulated mess as I could. I then added water, stirred it, watched the old blood swirl back into something usable. It was dirty, murky, not quite as vibrant as it once had been, but it would do.

Next, I grabbed a paintbrush from my workbench and drove straight to the alley where we’d dumped Patrick.

I’d circled the block twice, checking for law enforcement. It was late, and the place was quiet. No cops. No bystanders. Nothing but darkness and the occasional glint of headlights reflecting off wet pavement.

Perfect.

I backed the truck into the alley, cut the engine, and grabbed my supplies. The stench of rotting garbage hit me hard. Rancid meat. Dirty diapers. The festering stench of a city’s filth piled high. It burned in my throat, but I ignored it.

I wasn’t here for comfort.

Dipping my brush into the blood, I started painting. The symbols came naturally, each stroke precise, careful, methodical.

There was no way the FBI wouldn’t come running when they saw this.

The alley wasn’t like a normal alley with only two exits—this one had four. It connected to a pedestrian shopping mall,meaning I had multiple escape routes. When Otto and I picked this place to dump Patrick, that had been the deciding factor.

Otto had been useful then. Before he turned spineless.

I shook my head, jaw tightening. I should’ve known he’d crack. He got what he wanted, though. He wasn’t caught. Not by law enforcement anyway.

After putting the paintbrush and my makeshift paint can in the bed of the truck, I wiped my hands on my jeans. Using a burner phone, I called 911 and changed my voice as I described the horrible thing I found.

When the dispatcher told me help was on the way, I crouched behind the nearest dumpster, pretending to be a drunk. Local cops would likely come first, but the Feds would be called in soon after that. Cold bit through my jacket, but my heart raced.

It wasn’t just from anticipation.

It was from earlier—that shoulder bump with Knox, the heat of her body against mine. She hadn’t even noticed me. Hadn’t even looked.

But soon, she would.

I shifted my weight, careful not to step in anything wet or put my hand in anything slimy. The stink of garbage burned in my nostrils, but I forced myself to breathe evenly, to settle into place.

Sacrifice.

Not the kind the Administrator preached about. Not the nonsense he spewed in cryptic messages and holy proclamations. The real kind. The kind that meant giving something up to get something better.

I’d sit in this alley, crouched in filth, freezing my ass off, but it would be worth it. Because Knox or Yates would come.

It didn’t matter which.

I reached into my pocket and pulled out my gun, weighing it in my palm.

Knives were better. More intimate. More personal. You could feel the skin break, watch the blood flow, listen to them beg.

Guns were too mechanical. No fun at all. But they got the job done.

An SUV pulled up at the end of the alley, its headlights flaring against the walls.

I ducked lower behind the dumpster, gun ready.

Showtime.

24

The day was growing late as Hagen and Ander pulled into the south side of Kerrick’s Alley from River Street in downtown Nashville. The long shadow cast by the tall buildings on either side dropped the narrow lane into cold dimness. Hagen parked the Ford Explorer about twenty yards into the alley, behind a flatbed that had stopped in front of a No Parking sign. He shivered as he slammed the door behind him.

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