Sure, they woke up tied up and scared to shit. Usually literally. They literally pissed and shit themselves almost without fail. But our chat was always amicable. For all intents and purposes. I laid out their crimes, showed them my evidence, then gave them a choice between fessing up to the cops or dying by my hand. I didn't poke and prod at them to get any desired result. I guess because there was no desired result. I was just as happy to drop them at a specific location and have a cop ally of mine pick them up and book them.
Surprisingly, very few went that route.
In my tenure doing my job, I think there were maybe three who did. One serial rapist, one serial killer who preyed on prostitutes, and one trafficker.
See, Jersey didn't have the death penalty. And juries were notoriously stupid.
They stood a better shot with our fucked up criminal justice system.
But, hey, who am I to judge?
I was just as happy to get to the killing part.
Of course, that part could never be fully painless. And I was a firm believer in fairness. So I untied them for the big finale. They wanted to get some punches in, in some last ditch effort to think they had some control, so be it.
They didn't realize I had a flawless record.
I always won.
The bad guy always went down.
Then down the drain.
"Fuck," I growled as I landed on my back, able to look around, my eyes adjusting to the dark.
Not only was I in a basement with cement floors and cinderblock walls and, from what I could tell, no windows. No. I was in a mother fucking cage.
It was a good one too.
I forced a leg out, kicking with my admittedly crippled strength into one of the beams, nodding when it didn't so much as budge, sending a slow shot of pain up my leg. Yep, that shit was cemented in deep and bolted into the ceiling. It wasn't going to budge. There was no way out.
I should have been freaking out. My heart should have been frantic, trying to break free of my ribcage. But it was a sluggish, heavy thing sitting inside my chest.
Granted, I wasn't as freaked as a normal person would be, but my heart should have been getting a mild workout right about then; I could only assume it wasn't because it was another side-effect of the poison.
It was likely the reason my stomach felt torn the fuck up too. Luckily, there was nothing in it to throw up.
"Deslanoside. Digitoxin. Digitalis glyoside."
Oh, man.
Fuuuuck me.
That was a fucking woman's voice.
See, there wasn't one fucking sexist bone in my body, not even in regard to female criminals.
Why, you might ask?
Because violence didn't come as easily to them.
Studies have shown that little girls are inherently more gentle than little boys. Now, whether that is nature or nurture is up to the professionals to decide.
But what I did know was that whichever of those they were overcoming - something in their DNA, or a lifetime of programming - whatever trigger was bad enough to send them over the edge, to send them to the dark side, when they got there, Jesus fucking Christ, they were different creatures entirely.
I'd never seen something as ruthless, level-headed, and unforgiving as a woman in power over a criminal empire.
And I had never seen someone as brutal as a female killer.
Maybe it was as simple as whatever sent their lives in that direction had stolen an important part of their humanity from them. But I was inclined to think it had less to do with brokenness and more to do with them realizing their potential. Not being held back by things like fragile egos their male counterparts were afflicted with gave them a lot more time and brain-space to focus on more important parts of their missions.
So being in the hands of a woman who was a fan of poison? Oh yeah, I was in for a world of shit.
Sure, maybe I even deserved it.
But that wasn't an easy reality to resign yourself to.
"Foxglove," she explained when I made no response to her comment.
I had no idea where she was.
Even with eyes adjusted, the space seemed huge. There were plenty of dark corners to hide in. She could be anywhere.
Of course I was poisoned with some pretty goddamn flower.
Couldn't be some badass shit from South America that I could feel like warranted the shitty feeling through my whole system.
Nope.
Pretty pink backyard flowers.
"How quaint," I ground out, focusing on trying to force life into all the seemingly useless parts of my body. "What's next? A little oleander tea?"
"Don't be ridiculous," her voice called back, calm, but if I wasn't mistaken, there was the smallest spark of amusement there. "Oleander doesn't grow in New Jersey. Besides, it would tear up your stomach. And I might want you in pain, but I don't want to be dealing with your bodily fluids."
"Unless you're planning on killing me in the next hour or so, doll, I'm afraid you're going to have to regardless."
There was the distinct click of heels on hard floor, thicker heels, not stilettos, but heels nonetheless.
Then there was nothing for a long second.
Followed by a click.
And light.
My eyes squinted instinctively against the harshness, but also because the brightness caused an almost immediate headache which was, no doubt, thanks to the stupid flower poison too.
I blinked hard several times, looking over to find the heels I had heard. Combat boots, but with heels. Sexy, actually. I liked them. Wasn't exactly opposed to the long, shapely legs that extended from them, clad in tight, dark pants that must have been leather. She had somewhat wide-set hips and a simple black tee showing that while she had a banging curvy lower body, she hadn't been quite as lucky in the chest department. You can't have it all, as they say. She had plenty... and I hadn't even gotten to the face yet.
And what a damn face too.
As evidenced by my interaction earlier with Jazzy, I always had a bit of a thing for women from different ethnic backgrounds. This woman, well, she was Latina. That was about as good of a description as I could give seeing as there were dozens of Latin countries and I didn't know shit about what region looked like what. She was sexy with her deep-set, sultry, dark eyes, her flawless skin, her full lips, and her black lashes, brows, and long hair.
Fucking gorgeous.
And young for a poison expert.
Young for any kind of criminal really.
I'd put her in her mid-twenties, though there was no way to know but asking.
I watched as her chin angled up during my inspection, not calling me on it, not demanding I look away, but making it clear she knew she was the one with all the power. Then she jerked her head to the far side behind me, making me hold in a grumble as I forced my head to turn.
And find a toilet.
"Don't go getting hopeful," she said, tone empty. "It's a prison toilet."
It was too. All stainless steel and one giant piece, none of the inner workings accessible, no parts that could be pulled off and used for a weapon, but with a small sink area on the top.
"Set you back, bare minimum, fourteen-hundred. You want me enough to shell out that kind of money?"
"Who says you're the only person I've had down here?"
"Fair enough," I agreed, finally feeling some of the brain fog lifting.
"Get comfortable," she said, waving a hand.
"What? No introductions? No 'hey, I'm the poison-wielding hell bitch, nice to meet you?'"
"Careful," she said, coming closer to the bars, putting her hands on them, and leaning in slightly. "Or I will give you just enough sodium thiopental to make you feel like your veins have turned into liquid fire. Without the blissful release of death."
With that, she was gone, leaving me with what was most assuredly a psychotic-looking smile. What can I say? Women in charge were sexy. Women who threatened you without blinking were sexy.
Christ.<
br />
Where the hell would she even get her hands on lethal injection drugs?
The foxglove made sense. Natural poisons were easy enough to come by. But that shit they used for capital punishment, that was highly controlled. Our good ol' government likely didn't want it getting out that they paralyzed their inmates then set their insides on fire as way of 'humane execution.'
And people thought firing squads were barbaric.
Who was she?
Why did she have me?
Was she just a middle man?
Did someone hire her to bring me in and keep me just alive enough for them to retrieve me and play with me?
That made more sense.
I couldn't think of anything I could have done recently to piss off a poisons expert.
I sighed as I forced my body to curl up, finding the weighted numbness slowly moving away, leaving me with at least a little control over my limbs. I pushed to a sitting position, and dragged my ass over toward the toilet. Reaching up, I used the edges of the sink part to pull myself up, cursing savagely as my legs screamed and almost gave out.
I needed water.
I needed to flush that shit out of my system so I could think, and react, appropriately.
Was I especially keen on the idea of having to fight my way out of that basement? Nah. Was I enthused about the fact that, to do that, I needed to put my hands on a woman? Again, no. But survival was survival. I needed out. And if I had to put my hands on her, hopefully, it was just to restrain her long enough to slip away.
Once I got away, I could figure out who the hell she was. I knew a lot of the players in the underbelly, many of the experts in different fields. I didn't know nearly as much about poisons as I did about guns, drugs, bombs, and trafficking. I needed to remedy that. Starting with one sexy as fuck dark-haired woman with lethal injections at the ready.
You know, if I made it out.
There was no guarantee of that.
And it wasn't me being pessimistic, just honest.
The chances were truly unknown at this point. There were too many variables.
Was she going to open the cage to feed me, if she planned to feed me at all? Unlike the ingenious jailhouse toilet and sink combo, the cage I was fenced in by did not have a slot to slip trays through. But maybe if she was planning to feed me, whatever it was would be small enough to fit through the bars.
Was she going to come in the cage at some point to try to get more poison in me so she could tie me up and do whatever she wanted with me?
Or could she maybe just shoot that shit into me from her side of the bars?
The better a criminal she was, the less a chance I had at getting out.
If she came alone and she opened that cage, I was getting out.
If she didn't open the cage at all, fuck if I knew what my fate would be.
Likely a lot of torture and a messy fucking death.
Truly, in the realm of fairness in the world, that would be rather fitting.
I didn't want to die per se, but it wasn't like I was some great loss to the world. Hell, the only people who would likely even notice were people like Jazzy and Barrett, people just used to seeing my face. Because I didn't have anything even close to resembling a friendship, relationship, or family. A part of that was being a genuine loner. But perhaps a bigger part was knowing that anyone who associated with me was by default in danger.
I wasn't bringing anyone down with me.
And, to be honest, I had done a lot of good with my life. Maybe I had done it in a dark and dirty way, but the end result was the same. I took predators off the streets.
It wouldn't be a tragedy if this was how I went down.
But, that being said, I was going to fight.
As soon as my lovely captor made another appearance.
THREE
Evan
I slammed the door to the basement, taking the narrow, time-worn stairs up two at a time, my heels a frantic clicking sound, needing to get above-ground, needing air that wasn't stagnant, needing a couple minutes to pull it back together.
It wasn't that I had lost it in there.
Actually, I was pretty proud of how well I kept it together.
Kidnappings weren't exactly my forte.
The poisons? Well, I learned that at my daddy's knee. Twenty some-odd years of studying which ones did what. I was a walking encyclopedia of poisons. That being said, I hadn't been in the poisoning people field like my father was; I was just all about the facts.
I knew what I was doing, of course, but there were always factors that could screw up the outcomes. Like preexisting conditions, the level of panic, and therefore adrenaline the person might feel, sometimes it was even as simple as the type of food they did (or didn't) eat that day. The variables were what had my heart thundering in my chest from the moment of injection to seeing the effects finally starting wearing off in the basement.
Hitting the landing, I stormed right outside the side door, collapsing back onto the side of the building and taking a long, slow breath, deep enough for my chest to feel like it was burning.
I tried to tell myself that the hard part was over.
I mean, I had been watching him for weeks, hiding out in those godforsaken, bear-filled woods trying to figure out his moves, what might be the best time to take him down. Then I had had to do the bashing-of-the-head thing and the drugging thing. And then, as proven by the screaming ache in my arm muscles, the dragging of him into the woods where I had a vehicle parked. Then dragging him again out of the car and down the basement stairs.
But there was no convincing myself it was all downhill from here.
Because from here, I had to question him.
And then kill him.
So, yeah.
That was where I was at.
That was why my heart was as frantic as hummingbird's wings in my chest. That was why I had a cold sweat all over my body. That was why I needed to get away from the notorious Luce for a while.
I don't know what I had been expecting when I finally got a close look at him.
See, while I had been following him, he had this hardcore dedication to his black hoodies, with the hood almost always pulled up. I had only gotten small glimpses of his features. Not even enough to pick him up out of a lineup.
I had expected a face as ugly as his soul.
I guess it often never worked that way.
Most serial killers were good looking.
Luce was no exception.
He had dark hair, dark eyes, and this amazingly chiseled, sharp jawline, dark brows, a ton of lashes, and the slightest cleft in his chin.
What freaked me out most were those eyes, though. They were set deep and heavy-lidded, giving him an almost sleepy look, completely hiding the evil that lay underneath.
Body-wise, he wasn't a big guy. Tall? Sure. But he wasn't overly wide or muscular. In fact, he might have been called thin by some.
If he were anyone else, he would have been attractive.
Just my type, actually.
But that was obviously completely beyond the point.
The point was, things were finally in the works.
The plan had been in place for almost a year. I had worked out every possible little kink. I had plotted it to the most minute detail. I had made sure there was no chance of me getting caught, or him escaping. Both were equally important in my opinion. First, I was not the kind of woman who would do well in prison. I liked long showers, private bathroom visits, and very specific skincare products. Second, if he got free, I was pretty sure I was dead. There was nothing about Luce that said he was the kind of man to let people go.
If he set his sights on you, you no longer existed.
Case closed.
That was why I spent three months in a plumbing class, learning how to drop my own bathroom into a basement, so I didn't have to hire anyone who might think it was odd that I was putting in a prison-style toilet and sink combo in my basement. Then I spent a couple long,
exhausting, sweat and blood-soaked weeks painstakingly installing the prison bars. I had actually broken a finger trying to get the cement dug up enough to sink in the bars, then re-cement it.
It had all been worth it when I grabbed a sledgehammer and went to town trying to make the bars budge... to no avail.
I had a steady prison just waiting for an inmate.
I pushed off the wall, and made my way back inside, walking through the garage which led to the basement, through the small, very stark white laundry room, then in through a door that led into the dining/ kitchen/ living space I had been calling home for the past ten months.
It didn't feel like home. I was maybe half-convinced it never would feel like home. But it was nothing to do with the house. I really liked it. It was small and secluded. There were warm, pale yellow walls, charmingly scuffed and worn hardwood floors, cabin-style cabinets in the kitchen, a clawfoot tub in the bathroom, and three bedrooms. Two of which were all but useless to me and, in fact, I hadn't actually stepped foot inside of either since I officially moved in.
I had spent hours looking for furniture that I thought would fit the space. There was a spacious off-white tufted headboard queen-sized bed in the master, along with white dressers, and a very pale robin's egg blue on the walls and my comforter. There was a small dark brown sectional in the living room with a wide glass-top display coffee table before it on top of a multi-color rug, facing the brick fireplace. There were three floor-to-ceiling bookshelves where I stored some books, but mostly just keepsakes from my travels.
It was the homiest home I had ever been in.
Therein, I guess, lay the problem.
I had never actually had a home before. Home, for me, had always been RVs or the backs of vans or tents in the woods. Home was dozens of countries I had visited, had immersed myself in all my life.
Hell, I had never actually slept in a real, stationary bed until I was seven years old when we stopped into the States for a brief visit, and stayed in a hotel since the RV was in the shop, and you generally weren't permitted to just pitch a tent anywhere you wanted in the US.
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