by Finn, Emilia
Sitting back and studying her bare shoulder when the gown slips, I bring her feet into my lap and press my thumb into her calf. “Can I stay with you for a while? My apartment is cold as fuck, and you’ve got all the food and pussy up here anyway.”
Snorting, she inhales fried rice and chokes. Coughing and laughing, she smacks her own chest and spits her mouthful back into the bowl. “I swear,” she chokes again. “I have no clue how you get anyone to be your friend. How you bed women is beyond me. Are you here because you wanna hang with me, or because of the free heat and food?”
“Both?” Shrugging, I lean forward and offer her a slice of beef. “I wanna hang out. I wanna not swallow my ball sack up through my asshole because it’s so cold in my apartment. I want to eat, and since you ordered in, I don’t have to drag my ass to Ginnie’s in the cold. Basically, I wanna hang with you, but it’s a super awesome coincidence you have the food, heat, and punani.”
She shakes her head and studies her food. “I hate how crude you are.”
“No you don’t, babe. You think it’s charming.”
* * *
Not only do I mooch heat and food until Project Runway ends, but I stay until my phone dings and the world outside Sophia’s apartment is pitch black. We’re both still naked; we’re both warm and fed, but now my cell brings me back to the real world and reminds me why I shouldn’t have followed Sophia into Ginnie’s diner that time.
Gently pushing Soph’s head off my chest and smiling at the sweat that beads between our bodies, I trip out of the sheets and walk my naked ass to where my jeans lie on her floor. Tugging my lit phone out, I sigh at the screen.
It’s Ace.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
From: AcesAndEights
Subject: Get up. Time to go.
41.9584° N. 70.6673° W.
Be there by sunrise. A new text went out, a new shipment of girls is being handed over at five. No need for interrogation, they won’t help us. This is an extermination mission.
It’s my duty to tell you that you don’t have to do it. If caught, you’ll be tried and convicted as a civilian.
But they’re handing over girls, so… you make the choice you think is best.
In the dark, with the city lights behind me and my phone’s light in my eyes, I turn and study Sophia as she shifts in bed and plumps her pillow. Naked legs slide along silky sheets, and long hair hangs free now instead of that perfect little bun.
Do I want to leave her?
No.
But can I stay in this bed knowing a group of teenage girls will be sold, raped, and eventually killed?
Biting off a curse, I shake my head and turn away from her beautiful body.
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From: KingOnD8
Subject: I’ll be there.
I’ll report back when it’s done.
Pulling on my jeans and shrugging into my shirt, I glare at Soph’s phone as it continues to light up on her bedside table. She wasn’t lying yesterday; her work runs her ragged, and despite her declaration she was done for the day, she didn’t stop working the whole night. Whoever the fuck demands her attention as much as they do, whoever put those bags under her eyes needs to back the fuck up and let her rest.
If they don’t cool it, they’ll have to answer to me.
Stopping by her side of the bed, I drop a soft kiss on her cheek and whisper my goodbyes. I’m not heading out to sell a fucking fridge. I’m heading out to execute men.
Sophia and I aren’t compatible.
Her world and mine are legions apart; she should be dancing on stages and accepting bouquets of roses.
Instead, she’s in bed with a thug and working herself raw to make someone else rich.
That’s not how this is supposed to go down.
Yanking her bedside drawer open, I pull out a protein bar and walk away.
7
Pest Control
Jay
41.9584° N, 70.6673° W.
My ghillie suit is made of greens, browns, and blacks, and moves with the soft breeze as I lie on my stomach at the top of the hill among long grass and fallen branches. It’s cold as fuck, but there’s no snow. The breeze bites the tip of my nose, but the rest of my body is covered enough that I won’t die of hypothermia.
Given my coordinates from Ace, I drove through the night and landed here at a little after four.
Now I wait.
Tree branches creak above me, and the breeze in the long grass provides moving cover as I study the vans pulling up a little more than a thousand yards ahead. One eye closed, the other staring through the scope attached to my Winchester, I let my finger slide along the barrel in preparation.
Three vans pull up, six men just like Cole Fenney, who think hurting people who are smaller and weaker than them is badass. Two men climb out of each van with their coats pulled tight but their pieces strapped on and visible.
Hundred-and-fifty-pound gangbangers with gold chains, gold teeth, and a predilection for hurting people, they make me want something a little more personal than plucking them off like sitting ducks.
They deserve worse, and I deserve something more satisfying.
Huddling in front of the van, the men exchange words; some are kind; some are catching up, and some appear to be pissed that they weren’t the first to arrive.
I hear none of this, but I see their lips move; I see their body language.
Peter Aguilar said it’s a contest to see who arrives first; today, three vans arrive at the same time, but only one can be the victor. Four of the six men here today will be punished for being too slow, and that tension blows on the breeze until I can almost smell it.
Ever since I was a kid, when my big brother decided he was going ATF despite my father’s wishes we follow him into the military, Kane has been working on his marksmanship.
Everything he did, I did. Because fuck my father, he can suck a bag of dicks. Colum Bishop beat us as often as he could, separated us when we pissed him off, starved us when he thought we were getting too strong, and put us through the equivalent of Hell Week every fucking week of our childhoods.
He wanted us to be like him, and because we said we’d rather try something else, he punished us.
But Kane, my hero, my fucking savior, he was strong enough for us both. He took my beatings when he could, fed me his dinner before he took a bite himself, healed my wounds when our father took it too far, and gave me his coat when I was cold.
And in our spare time, we worked on our shooting skills.
Now Kane holds a lot of the records set down around the country for longest sniper hit, for sharpshooting, for fastest simulator runs, for most kills, for most accurate shots.
He taught me the way he teaches everyone he cares about.
And though I may never hold the records, I’ll come second to him for the rest of my life and be happy about it.
The sun isn’t up yet, but the horizon shows hints of pink as a fourth and final vehicle enters my scope. Headlights illuminate the vans, and though the six original men scowl and throw attitude at each other, they stand tall and pull their shit together when the last car – a town car with a shiny grille and a driver – pull up and cut the lights.
Stretching my finger forward, I rest it by the trigger, but I don’t make my move yet.
As soon as I make my first shot, they’ll scatter like bugs in the night. So I wait, I plan, and I intend to take them all out so the women in the vans are the only hearts left beating.
In a suit and tie, a fucker I don’t know climbs out of the back seat of the town car and fixes his coat. Shivering and bouncing his shoulders, he closes the car door and approaches the group.
Fuck, I wish I had audio.
It doesn’t change anything, but I want it anyway.
The rich guy, the one in charge, points to one of the vans. Flicking his wrist, he tells one of the gangbangers what he wants, which results in the g
uy rushing away, only to come back with his load of crying women. They clutch at each other as he stands them in a line. Six of them cry and beg for release. Six women who aren’t even legally allowed to drink yet are this close to the end of their lives.
When one of them refuses to conform, when her crying is so loud, even I can hear it from all the way over here, the gangbanger slams his boot into the back of her legs and sends her sprawling.
I’ll take him out before I’m done here.
As though he’s sampling the wares, the guy in charge flicks his wrist again and sends the rest of the dudes scattering until they pull another fifteen women out of the vans.
The girls are lined up, inspected, felt up, and slapped for their crying.
My heart slams inside my chest, but my hands remain steady. My adrenaline surges, and my stomach rumbles, but I don’t move an inch as the guy in the suit walks the line of women the way my father used to walk the childhood bedroom I shared with Kane while he did his inspection.
Despite the fact all seven men in the valley possess firearms, and no doubt the driver of the car has his own stash, too, the man in the suit pulls his, and the rest of them don’t touch theirs.
Its six against one, if only they’d work together. If only they’d use their brains and stop with the bullshit they’re fed, they might survive this night. But whoever is in charge knows how to divide the little people, how to pit them against each other so they can’t even see right in front of themselves. The gangbangers don’t even think to work together, because they’ve been taught that every other club is the enemy. That the only way to live and succeed is to take everyone else out.
So the guy in the suit runs this show despite his lack of manpower, gunpower, and body mass.
But the guy in the suit doesn’t know I’m here. He doesn’t know that I run this show, and he won’t survive this night either.
I watch his hand through my scope, study the engravings on his Beretta, and shake my head when he plucks one of the guys off with a loud boom. The women squeal, and the guy’s head explodes until gray matter stains the ground and the side of his own van.
Screaming, sobbing, the girls break formation, work together in a way the men can’t, and form a tight circle to protect the smallest in the middle.
The five remaining gangbangers watch their superior with white faces and shaking hands.
They speak; they provide excuses, and they ignore the women who inch away in their distraction.
“Keep going, motherfucker. Pluck them off. Take it out of my hands.”
My phone vibrates in my pocket, but I don’t take my eyes off the guy in the suit as he asks his men questions. The scared women in the valley bring my thoughts around to Sophia; she’s probably waking around now, and she’ll find her bed empty. Will she be glad I’m gone, or pissed I snuck out? Will she change her locks and rent an apartment somewhere else in the city, or will she be worried when she can’t find me?
And does she know this world?
She said no one has hurt her, but obviously someone has. She carries a gun and swears off men. She quit a life of professional dancing and took a job where she’s worked to the bone day in and day out. Dancing will wear her to exhaustion, too, but at least she’d be doing it for her, and not to make an executive somewhere in an office she’ll never enter rich.
I respect women; I cherish them, enjoy them, consume them. But I never worry about their sleep schedules or their workloads. I fuck them, taste them, and pleasure them. But I never eat a meal with them or sleep in their bed at night.
The fact Sophia brings these new actions out in me is enough to convince me to pack my shit up and make myself invisible. I don’t even have to leave the city. I just need to leave my apartment building and stop going to Ginnie’s.
I’m lying on a cold hill in a ghillie suit with a long-range Winchester in my hands, while I watch one man execute several others. And when he’s done, I’ll execute the rest.
That’s not a world Sophia Solomon the Wise and Peaceful can be exposed to.
It’s too dangerous, and if she’s ever hurt because she knows me, I’d never forgive myself.
So why do I still want to reach into my pocket and take out my phone to check if it’s her texting?
At another gunshot, I refocus on the world in front of me and count three thugs left. This guy is going to kill each of them. He’s doing my job for me, and none of the idiots can think a second ahead and grab their guns to save their lives.
More questions are asked.
More answers are given.
The women gain a few more inches of space from the men.
And the suit shoots another guy until there are only two remaining.
Finally, he gives the signal that anyone can read without words: load them up.
No. Not on my watch.
The women scream as the thugs herd them back toward the vans. They shove all twenty-one women into two vans, slam their fists into the girls’ stomachs when they fight back, and swing the doors closed while the women scream and pound against the windows.
Two vans, two thugs, one driver, and the rich guy remain.
It’s time to work.
The Maxim Silencer attached to the end of my rifle makes it so they won’t be tipped off until the first guy falls. Then I’ll have a single second to make my final shots before they scatter and hide.
Choosing my target and breathing through the adrenaline, I watch the thug’s glittering gold tooth through my scope, wait for him to move away from in front of the van windows, and when I have him exactly where he needs to be, I focus on the breeze and calculate my shot.
Eleven hundred yards is a long way to shoot, not the longest, not the hardest, but enough that I could fuck it up if I don’t account for the distance and breeze. Sliding my rifle a little to the left, I count, focus, breathe, then squeeze the trigger.
Four and a half seconds after the bullet leaves my rifle, it passes through the gangbanger’s head, and it explodes like a watermelon on concrete. As predicted, the girls’ screams give away that I’m here.
Fast, I rack my rifle, move my scope further to the right, and find my second target. No time to breathe, I calculate the trajectory, take my shot while he’s on the move, and make the hit when he runs straight into it.
The guy in the suit holds his gun and shoots his gaze in my direction, but no one will see me.
I’m a fuckin’ ghost.
I’m the best-trained ghost this side of the equator.
The suit turns on his heels while the vans rock with the girls’ screaming. Diving into the front passenger seat of his fancy car, he slams the door closed, then turns to his driver just as my third shot passes through the windshield and slams the driver’s head back against the seat.
“Come on out, motherfucker.” My breath comes out on a white fog. “Ask me for mercy, I dare you.”
Panicking, he tries to push the driver’s side door open. I watch through my scope as he tries to push the driver out of the car but forgets to unbuckle the seatbelt. He shoots off rounds through the car window that come nowhere near me, and when he realizes he has no fucking clue where I am, he pushes out of the car and thunders toward the van with his gun pointed at the girls.
I’ll take them out! I can’t hear him, but I see his lips move. I’ll fucking execute them!
“No you won’t.” Racking for the fourth and final time and squeezing the trigger, I nod with satisfaction when the bullet passes through his heart and he drops to his knees on the hard-packed dirt.
In a suit, on his knees.
Exactly where he fucking belongs.
Knowing he’s the last man here, I take out my phone and open it up to my email.
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From: KingOnD8
Subject: It’s done.
Six gangsters, one purchaser, and his driver – all dead.
Twenty-one girls are split between two vans.
Make
an anonymous call to the local PD and get someone out here to collect them.
I’ll wait until the cops arrive, then I want a day off.
Good looking out on this one, Ace; twenty-one women are safe today because of us.
8
Get me food
Jay
Not only do I get the day I wanted after my field trip to a valley to assassinate men, but I get three whole days and nights. Like I didn’t execute men in cold blood, I hang out in Sophia’s apartment and pretend my presence isn’t dangerous for her. I watch her TV, eat her food, mooch her warmth, use her body, and when she asks me to leave, I dig my heels in and promise she can work around me.
There’s no reason she can’t work while I’m here.
So she does.
When I first arrived back after my long drive, after I showered, ate, and went for the longest run of my life to work off the stench of murder, I knocked on her door and grit my teeth.
Who would be inside? Warm and relaxed Sophia? Or the uptight control freak who doesn’t like strangers in her home?
I’d snuck out.
I didn’t say goodbye.
And by the time I got back to her door, I’d been gone nearly twenty-four whole hours.
Thank God, she didn’t punish me for sneaking away in the night. I was able to breathe easy again for the first time since I left when she welcomed me in, took my hand, and let me slide back into bed, naked and warm as though I didn’t leave the day before.
Three days and three nights of her body.
I’ve never in my life revisited the same woman; there are millions of women out there I could be with, so I always figured, why limit myself, right? But here I am, revisiting, and better yet, enjoying it.
I don’t want to leave.
I don’t want to be alone in my apartment right now. I don’t want to not see Sophia’s face while I process what I did three nights ago, while those girls’ faces race through my mind and their tears rip my heart out.
