Page 67 of Obsession
“You’ll never get away with this,” he spits as he tears off his clothes with jerky movements that betray his anger and unrelenting fear.
I cock the gun, and his brave facade crumbles before my eyes.
“Let’s talk about this, Hammond. I can help you. I can pull strings.”
“On your fucking knees, Miller. Turn around. Hands behind your head. Let me see you where you belong.”
Reluctantly, his knees meet the wet tiles, and I press the gun to the back of his head. He sucks in a breath.
“Do you want me to say I’m sorry? Is that it? Sorry for what? Putting you in solitary, or fucking your girl?”
I freeze.
He’s either suicidal or just plain stupid because he keeps talking. “Oh, she begged for it. You warmed her up for me, Hammond. You should have felt that pussy. So fucking wet and warm.”
I pistol-whip him, and he falls to the floor. Seems what would have been a quick death will now be slow and drawn out. I wish I could take my time with him as I’ve done in the past, keep him alive for days while I show him the true meaning of suffering,but I’m running out of time. It won’t be long before Garcia calls the alarm. I have to be quick.
This guy doesn’t deserve a merciful death.
Grabbing Miller’s arm, I twist it at an unnatural angle, and he cries out, panting harshly through his teeth. “You fucked her?”
He begins to laugh, and I apply more pressure to his arm. His crazed laughter morphs into sobs. “Fuck, okay. Just stop.”
I don’t. One small twist of my wrist and his arm will snap. “What did you do to her?”
“Okay, okay, I’m sorry,” he chokes out through agonized cries. “I told her she had to give it up to me, or you’d never see daylight again. I told her I’d keep you locked in solitary.”
Snap!
I leave him screaming on the floor with his knees drawn up to his chest and his forehead pressed to the wet tiles. I pace, adrenaline surging through my veins.
I’ll kill for you, baby.
I’ll make him suffer.
Sneering at him, I place my bare foot on his broken arm and apply enough pressure to make him squeal like a pig. “This isn’t anything personal, Miller.” I stomp on it. “Fuck that, it’s beyond personal.”
I fist his hair, grabbing a good chunk of his stupid side parting. He’s panting harshly through gritted teeth but soon stops when I slam his face into the tiles. Teeth fly. Blood pours from his nose and mouth.
“While I’d love for us to spend more time experimenting with your pain threshold, I have a girl waiting for me, so we’ll have to cut your torture session short. I’ll see you on the other side, Miller.” I smash his face into the tiles again. It’s surprisingly easy to kill a man when you beat his face to a pulp against the shower floor. It doesn’t take long for his skull to collapse in on itself. It’s the best fucking sound.
Blood pours down the drain, staining the moldy tiles.
Miller is unrecognizable by the time I’m done unleashing my pent-up anger on his dead body. I quite like him like this, with a flattened, bloodied face, surrounded by teeth and brain matter.
What I don’t like are the pieces of gore and hair beneath my fingernails. There’s blood everywhere.
I move through another quick shower and dress in Miller’s clothes. They’re on the smaller side, but it’ll do.
I pull the cap low over my forehead, when Garcia gasps loudly in the doorway.
“What the fuck, Hammond? You killed him…”
“Of course, I did. I’m a condemned serial killer.” I aim the gun at him. “This is nothing personal.”
Bang!
He drops like a sack of potatoes, dark red blood trickling from the bullseye between his eyebrows.
