Page 47 of Let Her Run

"Damn them all," he muttered under his breath, his voice barely audible over the hum of the engine. It had been less than a day since he'd exterminated his last pest, and yet he had to take another. Lately, thoughts of his past--of his father--had been tormenting him, and all he wanted was to make the noise stop.

His father had been a sick man, a man who seemed to derive some sick pleasure from tormenting both him and his late mother. Their house, now a distant memory, was nothing more than a dilapidated shell with crumbling walls and floors that creaked with every step. He had no friends; the other children at school seemed to sense something off about him, something unapproachable. They told him he was strange, that he smelled bad, that he was ugly. Then, at home, he would get it so much worse.

In those dark days, his only solace came from the smallest creatures that shared his home: ants marching in perfect formation across the warped floorboards, termites feasting on the rotting wood, spiders spinning intricate webs in the darkest corners. They became his friends, his family. He would spend hours lying on the ground, observing their delicate movements, feeling a kinship with these misunderstood beings.

"Mom, look at this!" he could still recall his own high-pitched voice, beckoning his mother to observe the ants' labor. Her tired eyes would gaze at the small creatures for a moment before she'd smile, her hand gently ruffling his hair.

"Amazing, isn't it?" she would say. "How such tiny creatures can do so much."

She had been his only bit of light, along with the bugs, because she could see the beauty in them too. But then she died. He was killed by his father. After years of buildup, finally, one day, his father simply snapped. Hit his mother over the back of the head while he'd been sleeping upstairs.

His father had died in prison only a couple of weeks ago.

Now, as he navigated through the twisting streets of Portland, he couldn't help but think of how the world still saw him – an outcast, someone who belonged with the insects he so adored. And yet, it was this very isolation that had driven him to become what he was: a predator, a hunter.

The truck rumbled beneath him, echoing his own restless heart as he accelerated into the dimming day.

His mind wandered back to when he first entered the pest control business. It hadn't been out of hatred for the insects – quite the contrary – but rather a misguided attempt to save them. He thought that by being on the inside, he could change the system, educate people about the importance of these tiny creatures and how they could coexist peacefully.

"Are you sure you're up for this?" his boss had asked him on his first day, skeptically looking at the young man with an unkempt beard and calloused hands.

"Absolutely," he'd replied, his voice filled with determination. "I want to make a difference."

But the reality was harsher than his naïve dreams.

The more he worked in the field, the more exterminations he witnessed, the more his heart hardened. And with each job, he found himself unable to shake the feeling that he was betraying his only friends.

"Stop!" a woman's voice echoed in his memory, her horrified gaze fixed on a spider she'd discovered in her home. "Kill it! Kill it now!"

"Ma'am, please," he'd pleaded, desperation etched on his face. "It's just trying to survive, like all of us."

"Get rid of it!" she'd screamed, her eyes wild with fear. "Or I'll call someone who will!"

And so, he'd relented, crushing the life out of the harmless creature – and a piece of his own soul along with it.

As the years went by, his mission changed. No longer content with simply saving insects from extermination, he began to target those who sought to harm them. He would become their protector, the avenger of his friends who had no voice.

It was only a fantasy at first.

But when his father died in prison, it triggered something in him. It reminded him of the fragility of life and let loose all those emotions he'd kept buried.

He couldn't waste his own life not doing what he was born to do.

"Exterminate them before they can exterminate others," he muttered to himself, gripping the steering wheel with white knuckles. The words had become both a mantra and a curse, driving him forward into the abyss.

The truck slowed as he approached the next house on his list.

"Your time has come," he whispered, a wicked smile playing at the corners of his lips. "You won't hurt my friends any longer."

CHAPTER TWENTY SIX

The fading day cast long shadows across the cluttered garage. Fiona stood at the entrance of Harrison Greene's makeshift office, taking in every detail. The garage, tucked under the derelict apartment building he apparently called home, was left surprisingly open for someone who had so much to hide.

She took a breath. Maybe Harrison was in there, working. The thought of coming face-to-face with him alone made her heart race with fear, but she had to see this through. Jake was supposed to meet her here, but there was no sign of him yet. Her partner's absence weighed heavily on her mind as she ventured further into the dimly lit garage.

Inside, it was empty. No sign of Harrison or his vehicle. But there were plenty of tools and a workbench cluttered with papers. Not exactly an organized office space.

She glanced over her shoulder as though Harrison would suddenly appear out of thin air. But there was no sign of life, and she couldn't waste any time. Fiona dove at Harrison's desk and rifled through stacks of paperwork scattered across the grimy surface. And then she found it—records of all the people Harrison had gone to give quotes to.

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