Page 173 of Dirty Grovel

As far as I can see, no one has noticed that there’s a speedboat slicing through the water towards them.

If they’re truly this blind, they deserve to die.

“What’s the status?” I ask Artem, who’s got his binoculars out.

“I can see both brothers,” he informs me and the crew. “And four others. All look sloshed off their asses. They’re fucking clueless.”

“Not for long,” I say, taking aim. “Soon, they’ll be brainless.”

With four quick squeezes of the trigger, I shoot four holes into the boat’s hull, removing any chance of a quick getaway.

“We’ve been spotted,” Artem declares as their vessel lurches to a side.

The men jump to their feet unsteadily, their bodies turning in our direction. We’re close enough now that I can see the vacant, slack-jawed expressions on their faces turn to shock.

Then fury.

They start scrambling around, trying to get to their guns. But I’m already one step ahead of them.

If they want firepower, I’ll give them firepower.

I hand off the rifle and pick up the pièce de résistance, the finishing touch of my little revenge cruise: an industrial flamethrower.

Their fury fades.

Their fear comes in like the last tide they’ll ever see.

There’ll be no final words for any of them. But at least their bodies will serve the ocean—it’s all part of the circle of life, after all.

The poetry continues, it seems.

With one final smirk, I unleash the flamethrower. Fire, wild and pure, bursts forth with a fury, reaching twice the distance as a normal flamethrower and with twice the power. The men scramble, darting for cover as though they can escape my wrath.

But as heat bites down around us with dripping jaws, I hear their screams.

Then I smell it—familiar and punctuated with memory of loss—burning flesh.

I can see my sins dancing across the water’s surface, dark in the shadow of that sleek yacht that’s now alive with fire. But I don’t feel possessed by them anymore.

It’s taken almost two decades, but at last, I realize—fire cleanses all sins.

As the flames swallow my enemies whole, I recognize a shift in my soul. Before Sutton, violence was business. Cold, calculated, a means to victory. It was a move on a chessboard, each one drawing me closer and closer to the top spot, making a king out of me.

But now, it’s different.

There’s a primal need to this violence. A personal vendetta that requires an answer.

I don’t care about business or power or politics.

The only thing that matters anymore is Sutton.

The need to destroy anyone who threatens her burns hotter than any explosion any man could engineer.

With sweat dripping down the sides of my face, I hand the flamethrower over to one of my men. Then I stand back to admire my handiwork.

The fire still curls around the other yacht, as black, wispy tentacles reach for the sky. Heat still rains down on us like confetti at Satan’s parade.

Artem steps to my side. “Just got word from your sniper. It’s done.” He holds up his phone, displaying a picture of Matvey Martinek on a tiled floor, his head angled to the side, his eyes staring unseeing into the camera, a bullet wound puncturing his forehead in a neat red circle.

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