I got the information I needed from Fernando. Their process for extracting girls, names of some of the mules, and the name of who Fernando reports to. Turns out the guy is in Ohio, so I’m letting one of the other mercenaries handle him. He'll get the information on his boss and work our way up the chain.
The mules have already been located and targeted, so after I’m done disposing of these two fucks, they’ll be getting a sniper shot to the head, then on to Archie’s family.
“The fuck, man?” Archie spits, both terror and disgust evident in his tone. Fernando’s face has started to bloat.
I shrug, unbothered. “I have a lot of bodies to dispose of tonight. It'll be easier to dispose of them all at the same time.”
“Look, whatever my family did, we can work out a deal,” Archie negotiates, his words a little garbled and misshapen from his broken teeth. His nose has already swollen and bruised, along with his split, puffy lips. He looks as if he went five rounds in a boxing match with his hands tied behind his back.
“I don’t have any connections with your family,” I say calmly. “At least not until now.”
He’s silent for a beat, staring at me incredulously as his brain processes that I’m not an enemy of the Talaverra’s.
“Then why the fuck are you doing this? Because of that fucking girl?” he asks, his voice hysteric.
I lean close, letting him get a good look at my scarred face. If it’s not the scars that warn people away, the deadly glint in my eyes usually does the trick.
“She fucking wanted me. Not my fault that your girl doesn’t want you.”
I sigh and straighten. I’m not going to bother explaining myself to this prick. He won’t understand my obsession, and I don’t give a shit enough to want him to.
What he doesn’t know is that the minute I properly introduce myself to Adeline Reilly, she won’t be able to think of anyone else.
I will devour her from the inside out, until every intake of breath will only stoke the inferno I've created inside her. Like oxygen feeding a fire, I will consume every inch of her sweet little body until she will think of nothing else but how to get me deeper inside of her.
She’ll fear me at first, but that fear will only ignite her. And I will be all too fucking happy to deliver the pain when she gets too close to the flame.
Next to me is a tray of utensils lined up neatly. Without looking away, I grab the first tool my hand lands on.
A serrated screwdriver. Specially made for torturing. The military uses shit like this, unbeknownst to the public. Not that the government would ever willingly tell the country that they torture war criminals often and use pretty fucked up methods to do so.
The public isn’t ignorant by any means, but they sure as fuck don’t know the extent of the depravity of our government either.
His eyes widen comically when he catches sight of the screwdriver.
I smile. “Haven’t gotten to use this one yet,” I observe, twisting the screwdriver and giving us both a good view of each sharp point. Once this sucker goes in, it’s going to hurt even worse taking it out.
I can’t fucking wait.
“Bro, let’s talk about this. That girl is not worth you killing me over. Do you realize what my family will do to you? To her?”
“Did you really think I was going to kill just you?” I volley back, quirking a brow to show how unimpressed I am with his warning.
His face turns beet red, like the apples my mother used to pluck for me from the orchard as a kid. Always loved those things.
Threats spill from his mouth, fueled by rage from his family’s untimely fate.
“You’re doing this because I almost fucked a girl?! I didn’t even fucking know she was yours,” he bellows, veins popping from his forehead.
Not a pretty sight.
In response, I stab the screwdriver straight into his stomach. He gapes at me, his mouth parted in shock. A moment passes, and then he’s coughing up blood. An array of emotions filter through his eyes. Pretty sure I see the five stages of grief in there, too.
I bend down and grit out through my teeth, “What you and every sad motherfucker that even looks in her direction will learn is no one is safe when it comes to her. I don’t care if you only breathed in her direction the wrong way, you will fucking die.”
“You’re fucking crazy,” he chokes out, looking down at the screwdriver sticking out of his abdomen in disbelief. Definitely hit vital organs this time.
Slowly, I pull the screwdriver out, the suctioning noise quiet against the backdrop of his scream.
The unbridled anger pulsating through me is relentless—unstoppable. And the image of his hand in her pants, kissing her, whispering shit into her ear, and making her come. It all fuels the violent storm in my head. I plunge the screwdriver back in when the image flickers of her face. Wanting him back. Climaxing for a shitstain like him. I’ll have to erase his touch from her.
And soon.
I rip out the screwdriver and take a deep breath. I have to remind myself she doesn’t know me yet. She doesn’t understand what true need is. Not yet, but she will. Because she’s going to hate the way she needs me. She’s going to fight it, rebel against the craving and attempt to search for something else that makes her feel even a fraction of what I will.
She’ll never find it.
And I won’t let her try.
Cracking my neck, I take another deep, calming breath. My temper got the best of me. I’m not usually a reactive person, but I’ve already accepted the fact that my little mouse brings out new feelings in me, too.
“How many women have you hurt, Archie?” I ask, licking my lips and circling his body until I disappear from view.
It’s an intimidation tactic for the weak-minded. Makes them nervous when I vanish behind them for that brief moment. Their minds get away from them as they anticipate what I’m going to do. And then they get a little relief when they see me again.
Just to repeat the process.
It’s torture in itself. Not knowing if I’m going to strike. Or when.
“Do not call me Archie,” he snaps, seething as I stand behind him. He’s tense.
I circle back to the front and his shoulders loosen, just an inch.
“You’re evading the question, Archie,” I point out, deliberately using the name. He snarls at my defiance but doesn’t reply.
His mother always called him Archie. Up until she died of breast cancer when he was ten years old. That’s when his father lost it and started dealing drugs to make money to pay off all the medical bills and funeral expenses.
He raised his children to be cold and ruthless, and Archie here never let anyone call him by his mother’s nickname without stabbing them.
He’s stabbed a lot of people for calling him that name, including his best friend Max. His buddy complained about it a time or two in a bar Jay frequents.
“Don’t make me ask again,” I warn, my voice lowering to convey just how serious I am.
“I don’t know,” he shouts, frustrated. “A couple, I guess. The fuck does it matter?”
“I read up on your ex-wife,” I say, ignoring the stupid fucking question. “You beat her so badly, she was barely recognizable when she was taken to the hospital. Evidence indicated that you broke a tequila bottle against her face and then stabbed her with it. Not to mention the countless broken bones and bruises. You nearly killed her.”