Page 21 of Executing Malice
Without a word, my silent watcher turns to his right and starts walking, moving along the shadowy path behind the shops. His boots scuff on the gravel. Disturbs the loose stones. Even with slow, measured strides, his long legs carry him effortlessly to the incline of stairs disappearing under Big Ron’s Butcher Shop.
I stay rooted to my spot, too stunned to even blink.
What the hell just happened?
Maybe it’s a mix of fear and frustration that finally propels me after him. Reckless, obviously. I’m following a random, masked man into a basement without even the promise of candy. But that asshole is a witness and I get that, at worst, I’d have to pay for new tires, but witnesses are still a liability.
And I’m not getting that piece of shit new tires. Fuck him.
Each shop has their own storage space beneath them. The bank has old files from before everything was transferred to digital. I’ve never been to any of the others. Never had a reason. Yet, I find my feet hurrying down concrete steps and over the threshold into still shadows without a flicker of thought.
The smell gets me first. It’s a collection of meat, iron, and too much bleach. The latter pools in the air with a vengeance that burns my nose, assaults my throat. I can’t inhale without swallowing the muggy stench.
I get it makes sense. Big Ron uses the basement to cut the meat, to grind and chop, and hang. Even in the heavy weight of darkness, I can almost make out the hooks. The loop of chains. I can smell them, copper and rust. But the amount of cleaner used is above standard cleaning. It’s the amount used to hide a crime.
I start to edge back.
My idiot instincts finally catches up to the situation I’ve gotten myself into.
But the scream stills me. Freezes my limbs. I scramble to pinpoint the owner when the room shakes with the crack of my coffin being sealed shut. The punch of air with the door slamming behind me hits me in the back.
I start to spin, heart lodged in my throat, but I get about halfway when a stronger weight slams into me. An iron band clamps across my middle and I’m hoisted off my feet.
In the same motion, the knife is wrenched from my fingers, lifted and set at my jugular, lodging my scream in my throat.
“Shhh,” my assailant whispers softly into my ear. “Everyone’s gone. No one can hear us.”
He’s right.
It’s after six. Every shop in the hub closes at five, except the bank and the bakery. And Maisie is probably just leaving.
“Let go,” I hiss through gritted teeth.
“You followed me,” he drawls.
Heat swells up in my cheeks at the taunt ... and the truth. I had followed him. I’m the reason I’m in this mess.
“What do you want?” I breathe, so very careful not to move.
“Do you want the safe answer or the scary one, Leila?”
The cold flood of dread pools in my gut, spreads numb tingles to my fingers and toes.
“What does that mean?”
His face turns into the side of my neck and I’m vaguely aware that he doesn’t have his helmet on. That should mean something, but the absence of light makes the information useless.
“Take your clothes off.”
I feel the nick. The thin pinch of pain where the blade licks my skin. I feel the jolt of surprise and I have to contain the twitch my body wants to instinctively make. Even the spit I feel collecting in my throat gets stuck, too terrified that I might swallow and get my artery sliced.
I manage a weak, “What?”
“I’m hungry. Take your clothes off.”
The erratic escalation of my heart hammering in my chest pounds in my ears. Muffles the easy drawl of his voice. The cool whisper of his breath against my skin. I’m trembling and I know he feels it. Still, he doesn’t stop.
“Please...” I begin.
