by L A Kennedy
Zylan drifted off.
Chapter Thirteen
The sound of flesh on flesh was the round of applause Strain needed. Fucking always felt like a pat on the back. His hips pounded harder and faster into a new worker at The Hemlock, slapping against her milky flesh. She, like hundreds before her, was brand new to the scene. He could tell she was new. Aside from the lack of scabbed-over needle marks, she didn’t feel like sinking his prick into a warm bowl of gravy. Her body grabbed onto his with each stroke. Soon, if she lived long enough, she would feel like the others had—a bottomless pit of regret and hordes of past johns.
His balls tightened, his first warning of what was yet to come. He pulled from the whore and pushed her to her knees. She swallowed him down her throat with skill. He didn’t bother looking at her. He already knew what he’d see. Regret. Anguish. Remorse. Her eyes would be bloodshot, and she would have a runny nose from crying. The usual. They all were contrite, with bad decisions and too many dead ends.
He pulled himself from her mouth and tucked his cock back into his pants. He did the usual dance, tossing bills onto the floor with a small baggie of H, laced with chemical. She picked up the bills and left the drugs on the floor. Stepping around him, shaking her head, she left the room. He listened to her close the door in the bathroom beside him. He listened to her place a phone call and talk to four different kids, reminding them that it was past their bedtime.
He opened the door of his bathroom, and he stepped out, refreshed. He stopped at her bathroom and pushed the door open. She stood, shocked and embarrassed, cleaning the streaming tears from her face.
“Why? If you feel like a filthy whore after, why do it?” Strain asked, more out of curiosity than any other reason.
She shrugged. “I work. I work damn hard, but it isn’t enough. It’s never fucking enough.”
“Where are their fathers?”
She glared. “Typical, asshole. There was only one father. He’s dead, and no, it wasn’t drug related or gang shit. He was a good man and provided for his family. He was in the wrong place at the wrong time. The typical shit story the cops tell every widow.”
“Why did you leave the smack on the floor? You could have at least sold it for a few extra bucks,” Strain asked, leaning against the door.
“Listen. I’m a whore, not an addict. I sell my soul to put food on my table for my kids and to pay for a roof over their heads. Don’t you stand there and fucking judge me. You just paid to fuck me. What does that say about you?” she snapped back, defending her need to reduce herself to a piece of dirty meat.
Strain couldn’t believe he was doing this. He pulled out his wallet and unloaded every dime onto the counter. Then he put down his unlimited credit card.
“Pack your shit and go home,” he said, pushing the pile of money toward her.
“I don’t need your pity. I’ve made it this far without anyone,” she whispered, new tears rolling down her cheeks.
“This isn’t free money, little girl. You’ll earn it.”
She shook her head. “I’m not going to be your on-call fuck toy. Sorry. I don’t work like that. I come in when I need the money. I won’t be owned or pimped out.”
Strain nodded. “Not as ass. This club is mine in two weeks. I will need a manager or bookkeeper or someone. I’m offering you a job—one that’ll pay your bills then some.”
She lifted her head, her mouth open in pause. “An honest job? No more sex?”
“None. At least you won’t be the one on your back. I need someone who knows the biz, knows the routine and is clean and sober. It’s your choice. Take the card. Think of it as an expense account. Get your bills in order, pay off your debts. You can call it your signing bonus.”
“You need a pimp, then. That’s what you’re asking me to do?” she asked, her voice still angry.
He didn’t bother bullshitting her. “Similar, but not quite. Sex work is the oldest profession in the book. I’ve decided we’ll give them a place to work, safely. There will be no drugs, no booze and no more abuse. I’m not offering to save anyone. I’m offering to keep them alive while they do what they’re going to do out in the dank alleys.”
She nodded slowly, finally agreeing and extending her hand. “Deal.”
“I’ll have your paperwork delivered. Keep your ass out of here unless it’s to work for me. No drugs. That’s an absolute.”
She grabbed some brown paper towel and started writing her name and address. Strain shook his head.
“I know who you are, Prudence,” Strain said and stepped out of the bathroom.
The small part of him that still held onto a hair-sized strand of humanity was proud of what he’d just done. The larger part of him that bathed in the pools of evil didn’t do anything without a selfish reason. He knew that although he’d done her a solid, he was going to use her in the end. His self-interest always outweighed his charity, because nothing in this world was free. Whether it was out of kindness or madness, it all came at a price. And at the end of the day, the books always balanced.
Strain was buying up Blood Alley, and he needed the humans as a front. He needed to squirm his way back into mankind without raising suspicions. Time and time again, he was seen down here when all of the worst crimes were taking place. He knew that eventually, his being seen would land him behind bars. He needed to start creating sound alibis. Owning half the city block would be a solid reason. Plus, having a constant bank roll and a ‘Plan B’ would help his little side projects. This would also keep Garm from getting restless. He would be partial owner, and Strain would stay as a silent partner.
He always had a ‘Plan B’. He’d learned long ago to always have something to fall back on. If shit were to hit the fan, he wasn’t about to let himself freeze, out in the cold.
Strain took his usual seat, mentally redesigning the club. This would be the hottest place in Van City by the time he was done. The server stopped off with a fresh drink and went about her business, which included cleaning the bathroom he was just in.
Prudence finally emerged, the makeup cleaned from her face, her hair pulled back in a bun and her shirt buttoned up to the collar. She’d left the shit life behind in that bathroom, flushing it down the toilet, along with her regret. The fact that she’d left the smack on the floor had made him offer her a way out. Finding someone in this business who wasn’t high as fuck was harder than finding a clean cop around here.
He knew his server would find the smack on the floor and, like the fool she was, she’d pocket it. Regardless of her brain power, she was a good hostess. Sadly, tonight would be her last night. She’d suck that shit up her nose or drop it deep within a vein then be down for the count. He’d consider this her notice. He’d miss her coked-out smile and bouncy tits.
Garm took a seat in front of him. “Sir, the job is complete.”
Strain smiled and breathed in a breath of victory. It was a small victory, but a win just the same. Garm gave only the details he knew Strain would be interested in and didn’t bother with the filler.
According to Garm’s report, all five families Strain had ordered hits on had been slaughtered in their beds. No one had been spared. It had been a bloody mess. Bits and pieces had littered the floors of each bedroom. It was a message to the Netherworld. Strain had the power, not them. Cross me again, and it will only get worse. Tonight could have been a complete destruction of their think tank, those who made the decisions. Tonight Strain could have cleaned house. This would be their only warning.
He toasted the air, sending Garm on his way, but not before informing Garm that he would own a small portion of The Hemlock. Garm was pleased. It was more responsibility and was the promotion Garm had been itching for. Garm took his leave, as directed, taking a look around the club on his way out.
Tonight Strain wanted to be alone. He wanted to revel in his own madness. He wanted to wrap himself up in his hate and drink to it. The Slayers had brought this on themselves. There’s no running from fate and no hidin
g from the darkness.
Strain would begin phase two. Wound by wound, he would bring the Slayers to their knees, begging for mercy. But they would find no mercy with him.
Chapter Fourteen
“For fuck’s sake, Zy!”
Des’ voice could barely be heard over the thunder of Zylan’s bike coming to a dead break against a tree. The face-first stop didn’t slow Zylan down. If anything, it gave him extra momentum. Zylan jumped from his bike just as it touched down, leaping free and landing in a full-out run.
Des punched the gas, trying to catch up. It was like chasing a tornado. Zylan zigzagged down the hill on the ankles of two members of the Order. They weren’t their targets for the night, but Zylan didn’t seem to care. He killed anything that even hinted at being a part of Neri’s interrogation. He was a man on a mission, and all Des could do was catch up and watch. There would be no stopping him tonight—or any other night.
Des didn’t let Zylan out of her sight, as she pulled to a complete stop, her bike not kissing bark like his did. Des climbed off, pulling out her trusted nine-millimeter. It fit perfectly in her hand, light enough to run with without tiring your wrists or grip. Then again, a Slayer would have lugged a bazooka around if it was their best option. Holding her gun and sidestepping into the field, she listened to the forest. She was on Zylan’s six, keeping lookout for backup. Proletaryans traveled in packs like ravenous dogs, minus the higher brain power.
In the middle of the field, Zylan was throwing down with two of the Order’s largest men. The Slayers had noticed, over time, that Strain wasn’t hiring string beans. His followers were getting bigger and bigger, with skilled training in hand-to-hand combat. Great, Strain is hiring from the MMA pool.
Des wouldn’t bother taking a shot at one of the SOBs. She knew better than that. If she took one down, Zylan would rage. It had to be him and only him. He had to avenge his Fyrvor. He had to be the one to restore her honor. She’d made the mistake of taking down a member of the Order before Zylan could throttle them—once and never again. Zylan had lost his shit on her. Now she’d hang back and make sure no creepy crawlies came out of the woodwork. If they did, she still wouldn’t intervene. She’d whistle a heads-up to Zylan.
The Slayers were all out in the field now, everyone taking rotations. Strain had sent his monsters to the front doors of agents, the decision-makers, the policy writers. Strain had not just hit agents. He’d taken out their entire families.
Two nights ago, Captain Salas Warner had shown up at the compound of the Slayers. Showing up on their doorstep, unannounced, had almost ended with him being shot in the head. If it hadn’t been for Bane smelling Warner, he’d have been taken out five kilometers down the road.
Warner had given them the news. Five of the most influential families of the Netherworld had been slaughtered in their homes. Security footage showed Proletaryans. They were in and out in less than five minutes. By the time the police could respond to the alarm systems going off, every member of the household was gone. The scene was unlike anything that’d ever seen. It was cruder in some way. The carpets were soaked with blood and body parts. This was a message from Strain. He was more evil than the Slayers were willing to be.
Orders had come down from the top brass. The Netherworld wanted the Slayers to step it up. Cael had lost his shit. They all had stepped it up long ago. Each member had been working in shifts with no rotation breaks. But Warner had made it clear—recruitment would take priority. Once the Slayers’ ranks had been built up, they were to wipe out the Order. Mass extermination by whatever means possible. Anything else was secondary.
Des slowly made her way down the hill, step by step, toward Zylan. From the right, two men from the Order emerged. Des gave two short bursts of a whistle, notifying Zylan that two more were about to be on his ass. Des picked up her pace a little, lifting her gun and keeping them in her line of sight. If either of them lifted a weapon, she’d put a bullet between their eyes. Des was nothing more than a glorified babysitter of a man who was on the verge of a complete meltdown. Zylan was on the razor’s edge of insanity.
Little droplets of water fell from the sky. Van City was known as the pit stop for every single rain cloud in the world. If it wasn’t raining, it was too hot to breathe. She knew Zylan preferred the rain. Mixed in the scent of leaves and pine, Des could smell the broken-down bike and blood. The stench of death was only going to get worse with Zylan on his rampage.
Zylan caught Des moving out of the corner of his eye. She’d found a stump ten meters back from the hand-to-hand fight and had taken a seat. The two who’d joined the fight were now gagging on their egos. They’d been dumb enough to jump in without a single weapon. Zylan had beaten them both to a pulp. He’d hit them over and over, and, at one point, he’d used one of them to beat the other. Zylan was sure it was a sight to see but not a show that Des enjoyed.
Zylan stared down at his own version of war. It had taken him six and a half minutes from the time the nose of his bike had kissed the juicy bark of the tree to now, with all four dead at his feet. This included robbing them of their phones, weapons and wallets. Any intel they could get, they took. The extra weapons helped, too. Killing them with their own guns was the icing on the cake. It wasn’t until he had unloaded their gear that he finally stopped and took a breather. His stomach growled, but it wasn’t out of hunger. It felt as if he’d just finished a pie-eating contest, and he was the winner.
Looking at the mess of bodies, bloodied and bruised, broken and lying at odd angles, his stomach heaved. In the moment, he couldn’t stop himself. He couldn’t hold back, even when he tried. A driving force pushing him forward. He had to avenge his Neri. He had to hunt down each and every one of them to punish them for what they’d done to her. He wouldn’t stop until his fingers were wrapped around the Strain’s throat.
Des stood to his back, shaking her head. Her gun out, she moved forward. “You make my job ten times harder, Zy. I have to touch them after you’ve tortured them. Thanks for that.”
Zylan stepped back, making room for her. “They deserved it—and more.”
“I’m sure they did, but I don’t. Get the fuck away from me while I do this,” Des snapped, kneeling down and pulling off her glove.
She knelt down over a man whose face was hamburger. Not even dental records would help to identify who he’d once been. Fingerprints could have worked, but they were about to torch the bodies. Zylan stood nearby as she ran her hand over the beaten man’s arm. She didn’t touch him completely. Riam and Sid were teaching her how to use her abilities and not allow her abilities to use her. Zylan watched her process. She would think of what she wanted to see, then would graze them with her touch.
She would be hit with flashes of what had just taken place, the fear and pain and likely a wish that it would finally end and that Zylan would just kill him. From there, she would be given the answers they needed. Tonight, the only question the Slayers wanted to know was the location of the other Proletaryans.
She stood then, still glaring at Zylan. “All he knows is that they are being held in a storage bunker, out near the airport maybe. I couldn’t see where—only what it looks like from the inside. It’s made completely of concrete—floors, walls and ceiling—piping running above, drains on the floors. I could hear what I think are airplanes, a helicopter maybe.”
Zylan called in to Cael, giving him the new intel, then hanging up while Cael was in mid-sentence. “We’re being called home.”
Des turned away while Zylan lit up his most recent shit-storm, torching the bodies at his feet. Maybe if it had been someone else, Des wouldn’t have been able to stomach it, but he and Des were close. They were paired together in the field and had shared some serious close calls. Zylan wasn’t a savage. This wasn’t how he normally was, and he knew it. Lately, his savage nature had taken hold and changed him into someone even he couldn’t stand to be around. He was aware that Des had grown to hate being his field partner, hated having to watch him inch h
is way into a darkness that he’d never return from.
Des climbed onto her bike while Zylan jogged up behind her. He grabbed his wreckage and pushed it beside her. And, as was becoming usual, they limped home in complete silence. As any good field partner would do, Des had tried to talk sense into him, tried to keep him from going over the edge of insanity, but Zylan knew she was wasting her words on him. And from her silence, Zylan knew Des wasn’t about to waste any more on him that night. Zylan was broken inside. He was fighting off a future he didn’t want and fighting for a woman he did. He was caught between heaven and hell.
It took almost an hour of silence before they landed at the front door of their compound. Des parked her bike and left Zylan standing in the driveway.
Zylan pushed another ruined bike into the garage and washed up in the sink they used when working on equipment or cars. Stepping up to the door, he caught his reflection. His eyes, once dripping in kindness, reminded him of Riam’s eyes—complete darkness. He shook it off, put on his party face and stepped inside.
Neri’s was the first face he saw, as always. She waited for his return and was the first one to the door. At first he thought she was a breath of fresh air, complete happiness. It took his brain a moment to tell his feet to run in the other direction.
“This stops now,” Neri spoke, her voice calm and steady.
Zylan put up his hands and backed up, into Sid. He turned his head. The Watchyr didn’t look happy to see him either. He turned back to Neri, who now had Amity at her side, holding her hand.
“You want me to leave the Slayers?” Zylan asked.
She shook her head and lifted her hand to silence him, before he could say anything else. “Don’t speak to me as if I’m a fool. You’re out there trying to avenge me, yet you show me no respect with simple honesty.”
