Page 8 of Claimed By the Villain
This one I’ll make unforgettable. A message to the degenerates in this country that no one is untouchable. Justicecan come at any moment. Death is invisible—and it’s always watching.
It takes me less than thirty seconds to take out the first guard. One clean shot to the back of the head—done. The second one gives me a bit more trouble, but I disarm him quickly and slice his throat in one swift motion.
As I walk toward the main house, I slip on a mask. I don’t usually wear one, but I assume the bastard, despite his careless attitude toward personal security, has at least a few indoor cameras.
Just like I suspected, there’s no alarm system linked to the police. He never believed anyone would come for him. Hell, I doubt he even thinks anyone knows what he does. This man once produced exposés on child abuse. He won awards. While being a child predator himself.
I get into the house so easily, half the adrenaline I normally feel before a kill vanishes.
I hear music in the massive one-story home and follow the sound, cautious in case of surprises. I don’t expect any—but I never bet on luck.
His bedroom door is open. What I thought was music is actually the TV. He’s in the bathroom, probably soaking in the tub while watching something.
Then, suddenly, the sound changes.
No more music—just screaming. Not just pain or anger—pure desperation.
And I know it’s one of his victims.
The more she screams, the more he hurts her—and demands she scream louder or it’ll get worse. He enjoys her agony.
When I walk into the bathroom and he sees me, panic floods his face. He scrambles to shut off the TV—he knows he’s been caught.
I press the barrel of my gun to his temple.
“Don’t turn it off.”
I watch for about a minute. Just long enough to see what he did to those girls.
Then I pull the plug. I’m tempted to toss the TV into the water—but he doesn’t deserve such a quick death.
For the first time, I know I’m changing my plan.
This won’t be a clean, theatrical execution like Ruslan wanted. This one will hurt.
“I can—”
“Shhh… You can’t do anything, dead man.”
He looks like he’s about to puke. He knows there’s no way out.
“Where do you keep the tools you used on her?”
“What?”
“You heard me. Get out of the tub and take me to the tools you used on her.”
An hour later, I admire my own work. Shame the contract only required photos and videos to expose the body afterward, but I’m also taking footage of what he did to those girls. This bastard won’t be remembered as a hero. He’ll be remembered as the disgusting, perverted killer he truly was.
It takes me about twenty minutes to finish up. I drag the guards’ bodies inside and rig the house with a bomb.
I start walking back to where I left the car and I have to admit—I’m a little disappointed. I always hope they’ll fight more. I crave the reaction. But I’ve learned, after all these years, that men like Clyde Barnes are only brave against the defenseless. When death stares them in the face, they beg. They cry. They ask for mercy—mercy they never gave their victims.
I drive for five minutes before detonating the house.
Then I head to where my motorcycle is parked. I also rig a small bomb to the car.
Once I’m far enough away, I hit the detonator. Seconds later, the vehicle is reduced to dust.
