by Nicole Snow
I had no clue where I was heading. This place couldn't have been that far from Beacon Grove, and isolation was definitely a factor. My mind worked overtime, fighting through the fire ripping up my legs and filling my lungs, the blaze I refused to extinguish until I was really, truly free.
Galloping on, the forest became denser, forcing me to slow. The path turned to narrow overgrown dirt. I jerked my arms and legs through several clustered branches, never wasting a single second. Sharp wood scratching at my skin didn't stop me. Warm blood pooled around my left sock.
Run. Have to escape them. Have to escape the monsters at the house, and maybe I'll lose the one inside me too.
I felt it through the fire. The beast was reaching out to my heart and giving it a squeeze, casting a dozen doubts, hurting me because I'd fled like a coward and would never see him again.
It wasn't until I really knew there was a chance I'd make it that I began to regret my flight. I slowed because my knees literally wouldn't bend anymore. My whole body ached like I'd rolled my way down a jagged mountain, and all the little half-clotted cuts were stinging up my arms and legs.
I had to breathe, gather my senses for the rest of the journey.
Evan couldn't help me anymore. He couldn't torment me either, and he definitely couldn't rend my body, mind, and soul with his cruel pleasure. No matter how much the cancerous desire inside me longed for him, the sane part of me knew I needed to avoid my fate. I couldn't go to the other man.
I'd rather die out here, alone in the wilderness. Running ruined any trace of goodwill I'd forged with him anyway.
If some miracle led him to me, there would be no mercy, no love and hate. There would only be a killing punishment for defying him and disappearing, damning him to whatever waited if he didn't hand me over.
And what would happen to Izzy? I shuddered to think about it.
She'd just put her whole life on the line to help me get away. Sobering up must've freed her guilt, but it had also given her courage to go against him.
I mouthed a quiet, thankful prayer as the hours drew on. Hope replaced the burned out exhaustion in my veins. I'd gone plenty far from the house.
If I could just find my way to the road, flag down some car, I could hitch a ride to the nearest town. I didn't have a clue what I'd do then. I had no money and no skills, and the only kin I still had was a prisoner to the cult.
I let my imagination go wild. If I could find a job and settle in for a little while, I could figure out a way to get Heather away from them too. She'd always accepted the Prophet's beliefs without the awful questions I had. But if I had some money, I could drag her out of there kicking and screaming, maybe un-fuck her brain.
It was the least I could do for my poor slave sister after Izzy had freed me. I didn't have a clue how the universe really worked, but I had a feeling God rewarded good karma with responsibility.
The early autumn sun was starting to set by the time I reached the road. Stepping out of the forest that concealed me gave me plenty more to worry about, but it wasn't like I had much choice. I didn't want to be in the brush at night, and flagging down somebody was my only hope.
My heart leaped into my chest when I saw the headlights. It was a sleek black car like the kind Evan owned. I was a heartbeat away from diving into the nearest ditch when it went right past. A man and a woman were inside, way too close to be my keepers.
Two more vehicles passed, each one ten minutes apart. They blazed right by, though the drivers had to have seen me.
I didn't blame them for avoiding a ragged girl who'd just climbed out of the woods, but I was starting to lose hope. What if nobody took a chance? What if this forest became my new prison?
My stomach growled, a cruel reminder I hadn't eaten since breakfast. Jesus, if I had to go the night, I'd either starve or resort to chewing leaves. I had a vague idea what plants were edible from the times when Beacon Grove suffered through its 'food trails,' as the Prophet called them.
Men and women foraged the land near the town. We learned real fast what was poisonous, and what was...edible.
The old rusted truck was the last vehicle I expected to slow and wind its way to the shoulder. I was backtracking before it lined up, blinding me in the headlights.
“Girl? You lost?” A booming voice yelled from the driver's side. “Hell, looks like you're hurt!”
I clasped my hands and struggled to see. “I need a ride to the nearest town! Is there room for one more?”
“There's always room. Come on in!”
My heart fluttered with joy. I walked to the passenger side and put my hand on the door. Then my eyes cleared the haze left by the headlights and I saw who was inside.
“Oh, no! No, no, no, no, no...”
Jeremiah Bufort and his oldest son, Gilbert, grinned at me from the cab. I could've strangled myself for not noticing them sooner, but then I'd never seen this hunk of junk anywhere around the congregation. Had they just picked it up on one of the rare supply runs the Prophet allowed?
It was far too late to even scream when the door popped open. Gilbert wrapped his meaty hand around my neck and yanked me inside. I kicked and clawed the whole time. Pain surged up my leg as I planted my cut up ankle on the side for leverage.
But I was so tired. It was impossible to fight after the ordeal in the woods. Every pull brought me a little deeper in his arms, a little further into the truck. My muscles were too screwed up and spent to resist. They didn't have it in them to give me a second miracle.
Gilbert wrapped both hands around my neck and began to choke me. “Sweet merciful God, Daddy! It's really her!”
“I know it is, son. Who else would be running through the woods looking like a stray dog, if not a loose bitch guilty of murder? The Prophet's gonna be real pleased. Might even get our hands on that reward he posted...”
Oh, God. Please don't let me die like this. The woods weren't half as bad.
Neither was Evan's pleasure, pain, and fire.
I couldn't kick or squirm anymore. I was too low on oxygen, and I realized Gilbert wasn't squeezing my neck anymore. Somehow, I was barely conscious and my eyes were open.
Did it matter anymore?
I finally understood. It was my fate to suffer, a destiny wrapped up in sin and torture, and the only choice I had was which hell I wanted to walk through, and how I carried myself.
Their piggish, ugly laughter filled the truck as it rumbled down the road. I could've sworn I felt the start of an erection beneath my back as Gilbert held me on his lap.
No, this was different.
I was heading for another chamber of hell, yes, but this time there wasn't going to be any escape, no Evan to beat my captors bloody and pull me into his own sick arms. The grim finality hit me, and I tried to scream.
Nothing worked. All I could do was hope the numbness lingered when we got to Beacon Grove. If I died on the way there, I'd finally be free, but the world had proven over and over again that it was never simple, sweet, or merciful.
It was the way of things for me, and not just for me.
Strange. I'd never gotten a chance to unravel Evan's torment, and now I never would. Just before I totally blacked out, I wondered if we'd been chosen to suffer together.
What if he wasn't the savage monster I thought? What if he was just a fellow traveler in this endless nightmare, tormenting me because he was deep in his private hell?
Did I deserve the nasty, brutish fate around the bend because I'd been too stupid to see my soul mate, the only man I'd met who was condemned to the darkness like me?
VIII: Mistakes Without Mercy (Evan)
Ever since I fucked my whole life, my sleeping schedule's been equally fucked.
I always tried to crash out exhausted and drugged so I didn't have to have the dreams. But the damned things found a way to surface anyway, especially when I slept during the day, when any normal human being should've been up and alive.
It wasn't a crazy nightmare that hit me right between th
e eyes. More like a replay of my second greatest mistake on endless loop, the day I hesitated and disobeyed, and by default invited Borzia to slap my stupid ass back to the Stone Age.
It was just another scorched-earth job. Another rich asshole with a towering villa like my boss', some jackoff a little south of the border who'd been a longtime distributor for the cartel, warehousing their illicit shit before it shipped out. Borzia figured out he'd been skimming off a little extra on the side.
No other distributor had a private jet and a Caribbean slush fund as big as this guy.
He gave the poor bastard a chance to make it right with plenty interest. Of course, the asshole had a death wish, as so many do in this goddamned business. He refused, thinking he could pack up and getaway before the cartel made him pay with blood rather than gold.
Fifteen hours later, I was on a helicopter to the boonies, ready to lead my small team of thugs into combat. We landed and took the SUV waiting for us at the airstrip, already loaded with everything we needed to make this quick, clean, and easy.
Our target only had a couple bodyguards according to our intel, and they were the type who were just there to run off assholes taking a wrong turn down their private drive. They ran outside and straight into our sights when we pulled up.
The poor bastards didn't even draw their guns before the cold blooded sonofabitch next to me hurled two perfectly placed bullets into their heads. I'd chosen him as a marksman, a lean Mexican I called Snipe for obvious reasons.
He was related to Borzia, a young second cousin or some shit from the same family who ruled the whole cartel. Whoever he was, he'd never disappointed me.
The other two were beefy Colombians, men who'd done their hard time in the cocaine filled jungles with the guerrillas, modern day barbarians. They wouldn't think twice about razing this fucking place to the ground and tearing out beating hearts if they were ordered to.
I gave my signal when the guards dropped. I was the first one inside, a glitzy estate with all the multi-million dollar finishes I expected.
After all the people I'd killed on marble floors and private libraries, bleeding them like pigs all over their precious art and custom furniture, I wondered why none of these fuckers ever built themselves secret passages. Hell, even a panic room would've bought them a few more seconds without pushing daisies.
I found the target cowering in a closet, right in his master suite. His eyes were wide and his hair was a mess. Looked like the motherfucker had just woken up when we rolled in. Probably boning up on sleep before he went on a crazy hop across continents, aiming for Mongolia or New Zealand or some other fucking place where he thought we'd never find him.
“Please!” He screamed as I raised my silver magnum, only inches from his face. “You win! Call up Senor Borzia for me, put me on the line. I p-promise I'll pay. Everything. You can have the shirt off my back, sir. You can have all the clothes and shoes I bought for her! It was her idea, you know...God, I'm so fucking sorry. Please, sir! Please!”
I really hated these assholes when they cowered. In this business, there are no mulligans, no do-overs. If you fuck up, it's game over, and my job was to delete their remorseful asses from ever playing anything again.
“Stop crying and die like a man,” I growled. “We both know it's too late for anything else. Whatever you think, I want you to go to your grave knowing this isn't personal...”
I counted until five, just enough time for him to look at me without bawling and shaking. Then I pulled the trigger.
His head exploded in a cloud of red. There was no missing, no coming back from a shot with this baby. I turned away from the grisly scene headed through the house, wondering who else was here. Intel said his wife should still be around, and the boss wanted her wiped.
The man I shot was as sniveling little shit for blaming his girl, but he was telling the truth. He behaved like a good boy until he tied the knot with the materialistic bitch about a year ago. That was when the skimming started, and when he signed his death warrant.
I never liked killing women. Thankfully, the Colombian did it for me. I looked down the long flight of stairs I'd climbed.
She'd tried to run, probably from some closet or bathroom in the hall. The man at the bottom caught her and slit her throat with the sharp wire instrument he carried in his pocket, a favorite of his when guns weren't needed. Looked like she'd run right into it.
Borzia told me she'd been a stone cold bitch at every social he'd been to. She was a tall, blonde import from Norway or Sweden, one of those trophy wives who sucked at every peso our dead friend had in his account. I believed him when he said fucking over the cartel was her idea.
Well, mastermind or not, now she was just another stiff lying face down in her own blood. Glad it wasn't my mess to clean up.
“Let's go!” I clapped my hands, yelling at both the Colombians from my perch on high. “Search this place from floor to ceiling and let's rig it up. It'll be a fucking ruin by the time the fire trucks get here to hose it down.”
Another fatal flaw these rich bastards in dangerous places inevitably fell for. They lived in the boonies, where the only thing the authorities would find was another murder-suicide in a burned out mansion. And that was only if they were honest, and the cartel's money in their pockets didn't lead them to alter their reports to something even more mundane.
I walked on. The glitz and glamor in these places didn't mean shit to me. I only hoped I could raise my son right and prevent him from turning into a spoiled asshole once I retired and spent my own millions on my family.
Going through the place on auto-pilot was easy. Boring as fuck too. The bedroom downstairs looked like a typical kid's room, probably for some older kid who'd gone off to boarding school abroad.
I got the shock of my fucking life when I yanked open the closet and saw the trembling teenager inside. He was a boy with light green eyes and lighter skin, clearly the son.
Fuck, why hadn't the intel said anything about him? What asshole botched our report and sent us out here to mow down his parents with him inside?
My one condition with Borzia since day one was I didn't do kids. Now, there was one staring me in the face, eyes so wide he looked like he was on the brink of a heart attack. He couldn't have been more than fourteen.
He sputtered, first in broken Spanish, pouring from his lips like a machine gun. He switched to English when he realized I barely understood.
“Please no kill! Please! Mercy, mercy, mercy...”
My jaw hit the floor. Raising my gun at a target was second nature, but now I pointed it at the floor, wondering what the fuck we were gonna do with him. In all three years of working for the cartel, this shit had never come up, not even once.
I'd have to take him back to Borzia. My boss was fucked up and ruthless, yeah, but he'd understand. He'd scare the boy straight, send him far, far away, where he'd never think about this again, as soon as we were all sure he wouldn't talk.
I started to reach for my phone when I heard a single footstep behind me. I spun, and saw Snipe standing there, peering through the scope on his rifle.
The boy's scream was cut off by the deafening shot. I whirled around, saw the kid slumped, a cherry red hole in his chest.
Just like that, the teen was never gonna worry about anything again.
I must've broken the all-time record for popping the killer right in his fucking face. Two bullets tore Snipe's head apart. His body hit the carpet silently and I stepped back, fishing out my phone.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
I just killed a man with Borzia blood, and I was fucked. Didn't matter how much he deserved it.
The first thing I did was snap the phone in pieces. Then I went straight for the window to the boy's room, sliding it open and praying I could fit through the narrow crack. I made it – just barely – and high tailed it to the SUV.
The Colombians came pouring out the front door in a hurry when I started it up. All I had on my side was their confusion. They loo
ked at me like scorned guard dogs as I went flying down the private drive, wondering how the hell I'd get my ass back to the States and pack up everything before Borzia found out.
The whole mission had just changed. Now, for the first time in my life, I was the fucking target. None of his boys were top dog in the assassin business like me, but he had a lot of them, and soon all his rabid dogs would be hunting me down.
And not just me, Evan Cole. For betraying him, he'd come after Jenny and Ty.
I pounded the wheel and screamed. Nearly lost control of the vehicle several times in my mad, mad flight to the nearest city, where I shelled out at least a quarter million for an illicit flight home without a passport.
I was going on thirty hours without sleep when I roared into the driveway. My sister-in-law's car was in the driveway, but not much else.
Good. It's not too late.
I relaxed 'til I got inside and saw Izzy at the kitchen table, messy tissues balled up next to her, eyes like flaming diamonds.
She'd always been hot tempered, but now she was a fucking banshee, the first demon I had to face for my fuckup. The note she held up was scrawled on the neat cream paper I'd seen on Borzia's desk. It hit me in the face, Izzy covered my eyes, nose, and mouth, grinding it into my soul like a death row verdict.
I didn't have to read the fucking thing to know. She said it for me.
“You! You and your evil fucking work!” Her shrill voice nearly burst my eardrums. “They were both gone this morning when I came, and this was on the table. Give me one good fucking reason why I shouldn't phone the police and have you dragged away for what you've done. You just killed your wife and son!”
Woke up with my temples throbbing like jackhammers. I jerked up, my cock straining uncomfortably in my pants.
I thought about Cassie, relishing the perfect sweetness of her lips and tongue, the way she'd squirmed and burned with her own heat while I blew my load down her throat. Her precious lips were an antidote, a cure to my sickness. It was the first time I'd dared give my flesh the reins since Jenny.
