Page 5 of The Hellkeeper

When I got the order to eliminate James Brown—the king of child porn distribution—I expected some outrage. But not this. Not ten fucking men tailing me like I’m some cornered prey.

Too bad for them. I don’t get hunted.

I am the hunter.

A bullet slices past my cheek, close enough to burn. I pivot, raising my pistol and squeezing the trigger. It should be another clean kill, another body to drop, but nothing happens.

Click.

Empty.

Fuck.

I push harder, my muscles burning as I take off down the alley. Hiding isn’t my style, but without bullets, I don’t have a choice. My boots hit the pavement loudly as I scan for cover. My eyes lock onto a small restaurant at the corner of the street. It’s dark, closed, and empty.

Perfect.

I round the building, crouching low. The back door is unlocked.Tsk.I’m amused at the sheer stupidity. A mistake like this gets people killed. But tonight, it’s saving my ass.

I slip inside, as quiet as a ghost. The restaurant is small; just a couple of wooden tables pushed against the walls, a tiny spotless kitchen, and air thick with the scent of old grease and stale coffee.

I sink into a chair, muscles coiled tight, grip still firm around the empty pistol. A habit. Through the tinted windows, I watch them sprint past, guns raised like they expect me to pop out and make their job easier.

They lost me.

No one would be this pissed over James Brown’s death unless they were just like him; filthy, disgusting predators. The kind of men who deserve a bullet between the eyes. The kind of men I’ve spent my life hunting down.

I lean my head back against the chair. I should get up and leave now that my trail has gone cold.

But something tugs at me. That deep, primal instinct I never ignore.

Get up. Look. Hunt.

I push to my feet and start moving. The restaurant is dark and silent, but something calls me deeper.

My boots barely make a sound as I stalk across the floor, down a narrow hall, past the kitchen, toward stairs leading down.

Logic says, Turn around. Get the hell out. But the voice pulling me to investigate is louder than logic.

I move down the steps. The air shifts as I reach the bottom; it’s colder, heavier. There’s a door at the end, cracked open. Dim light spills through the gap, stretching toward me like a hand trying to pull me in.

I step closer, and I see her.

Lying on a bed, wrapped in blankets, deep in sleep.

An angel.

There’s no other word for it. She looks like she was put here by mistake; something divine trapped in a world full of filth. I've never seen anyone so perfect in my thirty years on this earth. Her hair spills over the pillow in waves. She’s flawless and delicate in a way that makes something violent stir inside me.

Her chest rises and falls with every breath. Adorable little snores escape her.

I just stand there. Watching.

What the fuck is she doing here?

And why do I feel like I was meant to find her?

She doesn’t belong here.

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