Knox: The Complete Series: Second Edition

by Cassia Leo

  Downtown Los Angeles is not a place where a scrawny nineteen-year-old girl like me should be walking the streets at night. But that’s exactly why I do it. People see me walking down the street and they smile, thinking I’m an easy mark. They can rob me or rape me, maybe even murder me, and they’ll get away with it. I won’t put up a fight. But they don’t know me. I’m far from easy.

  The monsters we can't see are the scariest ones of all.

  You probably think it’s impossible for someone to be afraid of little ol’ me when I’m walking these streets, but you’d be surprised. Our face is what we show to the world. It’s how we’re recognized. It’s how we’re remembered. Our face is our identity. When you hide your face, you’re hiding your identity, and this makes people very nervous. In our feeble little minds, the only people who hide their faces in public are criminals and clowns.

  Everyone’s afraid of clowns. Criminals, on the other hand, are either feared or revered.

  Hiding my face is how I make it through the streets of L.A. without getting raped and murdered. Those who don’t fear me are fascinated by me.

  Well, that and the fact that there’s always someone watching over me. He watches from a distance because he knows better than to get too close.

  I haven’t spoken to my father since I moved out eight months ago. I’ve walked these streets every day since then and I’ve only seen him on a dozen or so occasions. But I know my father. He was black ops for the army until my mother made him quit when he was just twenty-eight. Now he has his own private investigation firm. I’ve only seen him following me in his silver Audi S4 a dozen times because that’s how many times he wanted me to see him.

  But even without my father watching over me, I can take care of myself. And no one knows that better than my father. He trained me.

  I glance across the street at the guy in the hood and a gold Mercedes SUV drives by for the second time since I left the house six minutes ago. Now I’m even more nervous. I can deal with just about any deadly situation thrown at me. But I can’t outrun a car.

  I glance around the familiar neighborhood, looking for an escape route in case the car is working with the guy across the road. The gas station is just a block away on the other side of the street. The guy in the hoodie will get there before me. So I can’t bolt for it and barricade myself inside.

  A strange chill passes over my skin as my instincts kick in. I should probably turn around, but I hate admitting defeat. I stop in the middle of the sidewalk, half a block from the gas station.

  Then the gold Mercedes is back, but it’s not coming for me. It cuts across the double-stripe painted in the middle of the street, driving against oncoming traffic, and pulls up next to the guy in the hoodie. A white Honda driving on the other side of the road blares its horn at the Mercedes. The shrill sound of the horn fades away as the guy in the hoodie approaches the Mercedes.

  Bzzzzz. The soft buzz as the window rolls down on the Mercedes. The guy in the hoodie is fast. He pulls out a gun and shoots the driver of the Mercedes within a second of that window going down. From here, it sounded like a Desert Eagle .44 fitted with a supersonic suppressor. Not a very good silencer, but there aren’t many options in silencers when you’re packing that kind of firepower.

  The guy in the hoodie opens the driver’s side door and I can hear him grunt as he pushes the driver’s dead body into the passenger seat. Then he drives off and pulls into the gas station. Shit!

  I spin around and take off running back to my apartment. I race down Hope Street with a speed that would make some Olympic athletes envious. I’m a well-trained weapon. But one of the most important lessons my father taught me is that sometimes your best weapon is your ability to run.

  Nothing on my body moves. My hood doesn’t fly off exposing my hair. My sunglasses don’t bounce on my face. Every bit of my disguise remains in place as I fly down the streets of L.A. like a black phantom. Black hoodie. Black jeans. Black sunglasses. All hiding a ghostly face that would send children screaming.

  My eyes close in on a group of three guys coming out of a liquor store a block ahead. Their eyes immediately lock on me, as if they’re waiting for me. They really don’t want to get in my way right now.

  Get out of the way, assholes.

  I want to shout this at them, but I’m not a vocal person. I’ll talk to someone at the gas station if they have a problem with their credit card or if they need directions, but mostly I keep quiet. I don’t talk to my neighbors. I don’t talk to store clerks when I go to the grocery store.

  I don’t talk to people because I don’t like answering questions. I don’t care if my appearance makes people nervous and they need to ask questions just to feel more at ease around me. If you don’t feel at ease around me, fuck you. That’s not my problem.

  Oh, now they’re standing shoulder to shoulder to block my path on the sidewalk. Stupid move.

  The one on the left is wearing a white T-shirt that comes down to his knees to cover up the fact that his jeans are slung low enough to show his ass. The other two are just clones of him in different sizes. Shorty. Fatty. Stocky.

  I rush Shorty at full speed, ramming my shoulder into his gut and sending him skidding across the concrete on his ass. Fatty and Stocky come at me from behind. I reach my hands back, crossing my wrists as I grab their noses. Then I twist around and ram their heads into each other.

  Shorty gets off his ass and comes at me with a knife. I try to kick it out of his hand, but he steps back and I miss.

  Always attacking, my father’s reminder rings in my head.

  Fatty grabs the back of my hoodie and a good chunk of the ponytail underneath. I reach to gouge his eyes as he yanks me backward. I stomp on his foot, then I grab his hand and pull him between me and Shorty. I bend his hand back and bring my elbow down on his forearm, breaking his arm bone. He drops to his knees as Shorty comes at me with the knife again.

  “Hey, bitch!” Shorty says, holding the knife up as he approaches me. “You look like a freak, but do you fuck like a freak?”

  He pulls the knife back, ready to strike. I wait until the last moment, just as he drives it forward toward my abdomen, before I pull my leg up and deliver a blow to Shorty’s jaw that will no doubt have broken at least half his teeth and possibly rattled his brain enough to kill him. He hits the concrete with a sick thud, his knife clanging over the sidewalk and into the gutter.

  Fatty tries to get up again, but I land a devastating blow to his ear. Stocky is still dazed, clutching the light pole, from a single headbutt. Fatty spits curses at me as I run away toward my apartment.

  I cut across the empty parking lot on Hope and 9th, then I dash across the street to my building on 9th Street. Blasting through the swinging glass doors, I head straight for the elevators on the right. Then I pass right by them. Once I enter the door leading to the fire escape stairwell, I can breathe. But I still have four flights of stairs before I make it to my third floor apartment.

  I burst through the door onto the third floor, my hand on my knife holster, fully expecting someone to already be here waiting for me. But there’s no one here. I race down the drab gray corridor and stop in front of apartment 312. I get my key in the lock and my body inside the apartment in less than five seconds.

  Darkness.

  Sigh.

  I’m home.

  Then my mother’s voice echoes in my mind again, warning me. The monsters we can't see are the scariest ones of all.

  I’ve always hated my mother’s voice. Even when I’m only hearing it in my mind. Even when it’s giving me sound advice. I hate it. So high-pitched, so clear and crisp it sounds computer-generated. It’s no wonder my father is completely insane.

  I’ll let you decide whether the same description can be applied to me.

  I don’t need to turn the light on to find my way into the kitchen. I live in the darkness. My eyes can adjust to darkness in less than two seconds.

  My father put my body through every physical test
he went through when training with the army. And a few he made up himself, like the night vision test, which involved shining a bright light in my eyes then turning off the lights right before he would attack me. But the night vision test was unnecessary. Because my left eye has an extraordinary ability to adjust to darkness.

  And I live in the darkness.

  Unfortunately, judging by the painful throbbing in my side and the tickling sensation of something damp running down my skin, I’m pretty sure Shorty stabbed me. I’ll have to turn on the lights to get a good look at it.

  I press the button on the range hood to turn on the light above the stove. There are four bulbs in the hood, but I took out three. I only need one. Lifting my damp black hoodie, I see my white camisole is soaked in blood from just beneath my breast and down all the way to my waist.

  The hole in my camisole is right over the fleshy part of my side, though I’m pretty lean so there’s not much flesh to spare there. I lift the camisole and find that the stab wound is about one and a half inches long. It’s not spurting blood, but it’s gushing pretty steadily.

  Fuck.

  I turn around to the kitchen counter behind me and pick up the old-fashioned telephone with the curly cord. Other than my laptop, which I rarely use, I don’t do technology. I don’t like anything that transmits a signal. Maybe that makes me a paranoid kook, but the bottom line is that I want to be able to disappear without a trace at a moment’s notice. And cell phones, tablets, credit cards, all that crap is what gets you caught.

  Case in point: Shorty. I may very well have killed him tonight. It doesn’t matter that it was self-defense. I don’t want even the possibility of a manslaughter trial in my future. If he’s dead, his friends saw me kill him. There’s a good possibility they’ll find me. I could be arrested at any moment.

  I dial the phone number for the gas station and Aasif picks up on the first ring. “Hello?”

  He sounds stressed. I hope the guy in the hoodie didn’t drop the Mercedes guy’s dead body in the gas station parking lot. Aasif would not like that. He hates dealing with the police.

  “Aasif, it’s Alex. I can’t make it into work today. I’m not feeling well.”

  “What’s wrong? Are you dying or something?”

  I force a small chuckle. “No, just a really bad stomach ache. I’m going to try to rest and see if it will go away. If not, I’ll definitely have to see a doctor in the morning.”

  “For a stomach ache?”

  “A really bad stomach ache.”

  “This is a really bad night for you to call in sick, Alex. I have police crawling all over here, treating me like a fucking terrorist.”

  “Just stay calm, Aasif. Don’t give them a reason to Rodney King you.”

  “Fucking racist pigs,” he mutters under his breath.

  “Aasif, I’ll call you tomorrow to tell you if I’m better.”

  “Okay, see you tomorrow.”

  He hangs up and I immediately grab a spoon out of the drawer on the left. Then I turn up the flame on the stove. I pull the sleeve of my hoodie over my right hand, using it like a pot holder to protect my skin as I hold the spoon directly on the flame. When the spoon begins to glow, I pull it off the flame and immediately press it against the knife wound.

  I try to hold it in, but a wretched moan escapes my lips. Oh, God. Please let the wound be sealed.

  I pull the spoon away, taking some of my skin with it, and the blood is still trickling. Not gushing. But trickling is still too much.

  A few tears roll down my face as I realize I have to get another spoon and do it again.

  Bang. Bang. Bang.

  At the sound of the knocking on my door, my hand flies up to turn off the stove light. I pull my shirt and hoodie down over the knife wound and slip my custom Ontario 498 army knife out of its holster at the back of my waist. Then I wait.

  The sensation of the blood trickling down my skin is now more distracting than the pain in the wound or the burn. I’m used to pain.

  Forty seconds. Forty-one. Forty-two. Forty-three.

  Bang. Bang. Bang.

  Chapter Two

  I stare at the door for a moment, then I force myself to move. My legs feel a little weak as I move toward the door. It’s the loss of blood. If this is one of those guys coming to finish me off, I’m dead. I can’t fight them off like this.

  “What do you want?” I shout from where I stand off to the side of the door.

  “Ma’am. This is Detective Rousseau, LAPD.”

  “I’m sleeping.”

  “Ma’am, I need to talk to you about a possible murder you saw on Hope Street. Can you please open up?”

  A fucking detective. And he got here pretty fast if he just responded to the scene at the gas station. Aasif must have given him my address.

  Unless he’s not a detective at all.

  “I didn’t see anything.”

  “That’s not what your boss said. We think you might be in danger. Please open up.”

  I almost laugh out loud at that one. They think I might be in danger, which is why they sent just one detective to protect me. This guy is a bad liar.

  “Come back tomorrow.” When I’ll be long gone.

  “Ma’am, this is quite urgent. If you don’t open up, I’ll be forced to secure a warrant to search your home. I don’t want to do that. I know you didn’t have anything to do with this crime or the other crime scene on Hope and 7th.”

  What the fuck? Now he’s threatening to pinch me?

  I glance at the window on the other side of the living room, covered in thick black-out curtains. I can’t jump from three stories up. Maybe I can climb down the side of the building with my bare hands if there are no other cops or detectives out there. But I’m already weak from the loss of blood. If I lose my grip….

  “My electricity got cut off. It’s very dark in here.”

  “That’s okay. I have a flashlight.”

  Of course you do.

  “Just a minute.”

  I grit my teeth against the pain as I walk into the tiny utility closet where the stackable washer and dryer, a tankless water heater, and the electrical panel are kept. I flip the main switch on the electrical panel, cutting off all electricity to the entire apartment.

  I shut the door to the utility closet and head to the door. Looking through the peephole, I’m not surprised to see a person in a black hoodie and dark jeans. His face is cloaked in shadow as he stares at the doorknob, waiting for me to answer.

  Detective Rousseau. I didn’t know detectives were in the business of killing people and witnesses these days.

  I plant my feet firmly as I stand to the side of the door. Then I tighten my grip around the handle of my knife and tuck it behind my back. I’ll pull this door open and the moment this guy makes a wrong move, he’s dead.

  I don’t like using my knife in a fight. My father trained me in Krav Maga, so I know that any weapon I carry can be used against my opponent and me.

  Disarm. Disable. Disengage. Those are the three steps my father taught me.

  First, you disarm your opponent. Then, you disable them. That could mean anything from stunning them, knocking them out, or killing them. Finally, you disengage. You get the fuck out of there.

  I turn the doorknob slowly, then I quickly swing the door inward while maintaining my cover behind the wall. The white beam of the flashlight pierces through the darkness, mostly diffused except for the small circle of light on the black armchair against the wall.

  “Turn off the flashlight.”

  “Pardon me?”

  He attempts to step inside and I jut my foot out to stop him. “Detective?”

  There’s a long pause. He knows I know he’s full of shit.

  A soft click and the beam of light recedes into the dimly lit corridor. “Better?”

  His voice sounds different with the door open. There’s a slight accent, but I can’t tell if it’s European or Canadian French. It doesn’t matter. He’s in my territory now
. If he survives, he won’t have a voice left to speak.

  “Much better. Come in, Detective.”

  I keep my head bowed low so he can’t see my face, but he moves slowly. He’s trying not to provoke me. We’ll see how long that lasts.

  “I’m going to come in very slowly,” he assures me when his right foot is completely inside. “No need to be alarmed.”

  I’ll decide when it’s time to be alarmed.

  His body moves forward slowly and I finally glimpse the top half of him. He’s holding both his hands up on either side of his face. One hand still clutching his flashlight; a very deadly weapon in trained hands. But his hood is still pulled up. And from this side angle, with his hands up, I still can’t see his face.

  Maybe that’s a good thing.

  I step to the right, farther away from the doorway. “Close the door,” I order him.

  He takes another step forward so that now I can only see his back. Then he uses his foot to push the door closed. Total darkness.

  “Keep your hands in the air and tell me who you really are.”

  The silence that follows my command is complete. He knows I’ll be able to hear every move he makes in here. And he’s right.

  Since I was pulled out of public school at the age of six, my parents kept me locked away like a princess in a tower. Afraid that others would judge me the way the children and school staff had. They wanted to protect me. Or so they claimed.

  My father trained me in the basement of our craftsman style 1920s house in L.A. Houses like that are rare in Southern California. They’re worth a lot of money now. And my parents have sure mortgaged the shit out of that house. Hence, the reason I no longer live with them. They wanted me to start working for my dad’s agency without getting paid. Of course, I’d still have to live in their dingy basement. Then there’s also the whole thing with my mom being crazy and manipulative.