Page 49 of Web of Lies
"You're lying." It's more of a plea than an accusation.
"Why would I?" she teases, her tone filled with amusement. She raises a hand, tucking a loose strand of hair from my face, her fingers brushing against my skin. "I may be a kidnapper and a murderer," she continues, her voice laced with cruel playfulness, "but I'm not a liar." She scoffs, like the very idea offends her, as if lying were somehow worse than killing someone. "I personally hate liars."
"You're awful."
"I know," she says, followed by a melodic chuckle.
I narrow my eyes at her. "If you know who the Butcher is, why haven't you turned him in to Jackson? I'm sure he would have paid you."
She cocks a brow, her lips twisting into a smirk as she crosses her arms. "Because we don't do that." The cheerful tone in her voice vanishes. "You should know that after working with Hunt. Sure, we might slit each other's throats, but snitching?" She shakes her head, clicking her tongue against the roof of her mouth. "That's boring. Where's the fun in that? Once someone's locked up, the game's over. And the last person I want to lose in this game is the Butcher."
"Why?" The word topples out of my mouth before I can stop it.
"Because Ilovehim."
For a moment, I stare at her, thinking I must have misheard her. Love? For the Butcher? This woman is far from innocent, but to love someone like him? Someone who treats people like cattle? I don’t know if I’m more shocked, disgusted, or horrified.Probably all three. My stomach twists, and the sour taste of bile creeps up my throat.
She turns and struts toward the masked man. She drapes herself over him like a lover and presses her cheek against his mask, but keeps her face turned toward me. "But, hey…" She tilts her head back against the man's chest, her icy gaze pinning me in place. "We'll have a visitor soon. And I'm sure they'll be thrilled to explain everything to you."
Her words hit me like a punch to the gut. A visitor?
My pulse pounds in my ears, and my mind races, trying to piece everything together. Jackson? Is he on his way to pick me up? Why would he need to explain anything to me?
My attention snaps back to her and the masked man. His hands are on her hips now. She leans into him, beaming like a cat that just delivered a bird to its owner.
She said that she's not a snitch and that they don't rat each other out because, otherwise, the game would be over. That means there's another possibility. One that makes my stomach twist and leaves a bitter taste of bile on my tongue: The Butcher.
What if she wasn't just taunting me? What if, instead of delivering me to Jackson, she's serving me straight to the Butcher? The memory of the man, his hand all over my body, makes my skin crawl. My instincts scream at me to get out of here. Because if that's the case, then I'm not just trapped. I'm already dead.
Chapter 23
Kyle
The first rays of sunlight filter through the narrow basement window of the rundown warehouse, casting a warm light across the concrete floor. Despite the heat outside, the air is crisp and cool, providing the perfect temperature. My muscles ache from another sleepless night, and I can't wait to finish up the job and go home to see Riley and sleep it off.
I hook my fingers into the zipper of the black protective suit and pull it up to my neck. Then, I slip on a pair of nitrile gloves, smoothing out every crease to ensure that no room is left for liquid to seep through. With a single tap of the earphone stuck in my ear, pop music starts to play. The beat drums in my head, silencing the chaos in my mind and blocking out the bustle of the world around me. My pulse falls into sync with the song's rhythm, clouding my otherwise numb emotions.
My gaze shifts to the metal table in the middle of the room, where a naked man lies perfectly still, his skin pale under the beam of the overhead light. In two long strides, I reach him and snatch the clean bone saw from the additional metal table to the side.
I give the man a last once-over, making sure I haven't missed anything. But he's clean.
Usually, I’d need to work with precision: cut carefully and keep everything clean. Tonight, though, none of that matters. There's no one waiting for an organ transplant with his stats. With that in mind, the job feels simple, almost normal. Just another body. Just another task to check off my list.
I press my other hand flat against the man’s shoulder; his skin is warm beneath my glove. I push down, searching for the perfect spot where the sinew is loose, and the meat is soft. The warmth makes it much easier, as it means the tissue is flexible and the muscle is soft enough to work through with little resistance. I shift my grip, feeling along the bone and muscle and memorizing the shape.
With a tight grip on the handle, I take a deep breath and place the sharp blade against his shoulder. The ragged edge catches before tearing through the first layer as I push forward. The dusty, damp air instantly grows thick with the familiar stench of hot, iron-tinged blood. With each pass of the saw, the flesh gapes open and blood gushes from the wound. I peel back layers one by one until the pale hint of tendon and the solid edge of bone come into view.
As I carry out my routine tasks with methodical precision, I focus on the music blaring in my ears and perform the motions as if they are mere muscle memory. Even when I meet resistance, I don't stop. Instead, I tighten my grip, press harder, and grind through until the crack echoes through the air. Despite wearing noise-canceling headphones, the memory of the sharp crack of a bone snapping is deafening, impossible to ignore, and echoes through my mind.
I learned how to cut through meat and bone before I learned how to ride a bike. Violence wasn't a secret in our house because my parents weren't afraid to show who they really were. Myfather is a contract killer, and my mother is a cannibal he picked up off the streets like a stray cat.
Despite that, they tried to give me a safe and stable childhood, which I had for the most part. I grew up in an upscale suburb with a big yard and pets. I got to play sports and had friends, just like everyone else. But there were slight differences. While other kids watched their moms fry chicken nuggets, I watched mine cook human meat. She never forced me to eat it, but I knew what it was. From an early age, I quickly learned not to talk about it or tell anyone. That was the rule. While this is normal for us, society at large doesn't see it the same way.
Outside the safety they tried to give me, there was another side to my upbringing, though. I grew up in the underworld, surrounded by its rules, its corruption, its customs. What most people would call disturbing. To me, that was just a Tuesday.
I learned early on that if you're going to kill; you have to do it properly. Do it quietly. And waste nothing. We waste animals by the thousands. For food, for convenience, for survival. But if you slaughter someone, suddenly everyone judges you. Why? What makes us so special?
Dead is dead.
