Hell Hath No Fury

by RC Boldt

My jaw goes tight because I already know. I just want to hear him say it. I want the bastard to admit it.

  “Of. What,” I say from behind clenched teeth, posing it as a demand rather than a question.

  His shoulders shake and his chin drops to his chest in defeat as he mumbles, “Of me and some girls.”

  “Ah, that’s right.” Never taking my eyes off him, I approach where he sits. “You pretend to mentor young girls.” Each step I take is precise as I stalk my prey, waiting for the perfect time to strike.

  “You praise them. Win their trust.” Drawing to a stop in front of his chair, I lightly trace the arrowhead point along the side of his face. “Then you ask them to have a drink with you.” His entire body tenses as I trail the weapon lower to the center of his chest. “You drug them, and then you rape them.”

  With exaggerated slowness, I lower the lethally sharp tip to press it against his groin. “Perhaps it should’ve occurred to you to stop that shit altogether.” Instinctively, he moves in an attempt to protect himself. “Ah, ah, ah. You don’t want me to slip, do you?”

  When I add more pressure, causing the sharp point to press deeper, he winces with a loud whimper. “But instead, you let murderers go free.” I press harder and don’t flinch when his flesh begins to give way to the steel. I feel nothing when he cries out, body bowing as it revolts against the pain. This asshole deserves no mercy from me. “You decided to condemn me. An innocent woman.”

  “What do you want?” Somehow, he manages to force out the words, each syllable quivering, drenched in palpable fear and pain. His chest rises and falls with labored breaths.

  “I want my family back. But you can’t do that. No one can. But what you can do? You can apologize for not doing your part. For letting criminals—murderers—go free.”

  “I-I’m sorry.”

  I pretend to consider his apology. “Mm. That didn’t sound very sincere.”

  He begins to sob. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry! Please don’t kill me!”

  My voice turns hard, frigid. “Tell me how to find the leader of the Dixie Mafia.”

  His chin drops to his chest. “I can’t. They’ll kill me.”

  “I’m sorry, but who has an arrowhead just waiting to finish the job on your nuts?” When his eyes lift to meet mine, I narrow my gaze. “We can do this the hard way.” I drop my eyes to his groin and smirk. “Which is definitely not the case down there, is it? Or we can do it the easy way. And trust me, you don’t want the hard way.”

  “Wh-what’s the hard way?”

  “I send this sucker”—I jostle the arrow, and he wails—“all the way through. Then I shoot one through each of your hands, directly through this table.” His eyes dart to the sleek mahogany, his body trembling in fear. “Then I think I’ll start cutting off body parts.”

  An edge of my mouth lifts. “And guess which part’ll be the first to go?” Another whimper escapes him. “Your ears will go next. Then your nose. Because everyone should see you for the monster you really are. And then I’ll cut out your tongue for all the lies you’ve told.”

  Ignoring the way his shoulders quake even more, I demand again, “Tell me how to find him.”

  “I don’t know,” he sputters. “They’re…secretive. Even his second-in-command. I’ve heard no one ever sees their faces. I only have a number to text. They give an address and send someone to meet you.”

  “Where’s your phone?”

  “In my pocket,” he croaks out.

  “Slowly pull it out. Ah.” I fix him with a squinty-eyed stare. “And don’t do anything stupid.”

  He does as he’s told and holds his phone in his unharmed hand. I glance down at the screen. “Passcode?”

  “Zero, nine, one, one.”

  Oh, the irony.

  “Enter it. And then pull up the texts.”

  Once he unlocks the phone, his eyes lift to mine expectantly.

  Sarcasm drips from my voice. “You have them listed under DM?”

  “Yes.”

  No way can I hold back my mocking laugh. “For fuck’s sake,” I mutter and glance at the texts he’s exchanged with DM. “Hmm. Well, Judge… It’s time to divulge everything you know about the Dixie Mafia.”

  He shakes his head with near-violent movements. “No! I can’t! They’ll kill me if they find out I said anything.”

  “And what exactly do you think I’m planning to do to you?” I lift my shoulder in a half shrug. “It’s either me or them. I happen to think I’m the lesser of the two evils.”

  My words hang between us, and I watch the man, once high and mighty, as his confidence withers, giving way to suffocating fear.

  The answer is evident in his eyes before he even gives me one.

  Then I settle in to listen to every detail the judge discloses as I question him. Once I’m satisfied with the information he’s given me, I see myself out.

  A good cleaning company will take care of the mess, and I’m certain the house will find new owners in good time.

  That dining room chair, however, is ruined.

  10

  The Hunter

  “Word is, you’re the best around.”

  I don’t respond to the praise. To the ass-kissing. It’s what I already know. It’s what I worked my ass off for—to build the foundation and ensure my reputation precedes me. I’ve become the best of the best, only to be contacted through my former connections or messaged discreetly on the dark web.

  I am The Hunter.

  From where I’m seated, carefully veiled in the shadows, I stare back at the man sitting a few feet away, per my usual request.

  I don’t sit close to anyone. With the wall at my back, a meeting location must be one with a layout I’m familiar with. The dim lighting in certain areas within this place works in my favor. Precise planning and execution are an everyday part of my existence. I wouldn’t still be alive otherwise.

  The man I’ve named Redneck One visibly bristles at my lack of response. His expression grows tight, but he presses on. “We’ve got this problem. Bunch of our guys are gettin’ themselves killed, but we ain’t got a clue who’s doin’ it.”

  Someone’s trying to bleed out the Dixie Mafia’s claim here, huh? Very interesting. Especially since I haven’t heard anyone breathe a word about it. Sure, these assholes are a notoriously tight bunch, but the fact they’ve managed to keep this quiet is impressive.

  More interesting is whoever the fuck is behind it all has big enough balls and the means to carry it out. This job may be the opportunity I’ve been waiting for.

  Before Redneck Two utters a single word, I already know he’s a fucking dumpster fire. It’s my job, my livelihood, to study people. To learn their ways and what makes them tick. And this one doesn’t strike me as the least bit intelligent.

  Which means his loyalty is what keeps him on the payroll.

  “Ain’t nobody fessed up to it,” Redneck Two declares. “Nobody’s been braggin’ about it or anythin’.” He snorts before lifting his chin proudly. “Dumbasses. I’d be tellin’ all those fuckers I did it if it was me.”

  Ignoring him, I address his partner. “And you want me to find out who’s responsible.” I don’t phrase it as a question. I’m simply confirming what they’re asking of me.

  “Yeah.” Then Redneck One rushes to tack on, “Boss wants you to give us the proof. Then we’ll take it from there.”

  My voice grows tight with irritation. Because I’m not a fucking investigator or the middle man. I don’t work this way. I’m a goddamn contract killer. I hunt down my prey and eliminate them.

  I study the men carefully for a beat. “And you have no idea who might be behind it?”

  Redneck Two’s lips curl in a defiant sneer. “What’s it matter? You’re gettin’ fuckin’ paid to find that shit out.”

  I quell the urge to lunge across this fucking table and crush his windpipe beneath my grip. Eyes boring into his, I let my thoughts bleed into my expression and watch as he loses bravado, shifting
nervously beneath my stare.

  Tone frigid and steely, I say, “It matters. Because my price depends on it.” My gaze flits between the two asshats. “My time and my…” I trail off, the corners of my mouth lifting ever so slightly in a vicious smirk. “Labor is money.”

  “You’ll be paid.” Redneck One pipes up. “Boss said to give you this.” He rises from his chair and withdraws a piece of paper from his back pocket.

  “Slide it across the table,” I command quietly. He offers me a strange look but follows my directions.

  The paper includes details, written in code, of payment amounts to be delivered in cryptocurrency as I requested. Upon acceptance of the job, I’ll receive an advance of sixty percent along with any leads and information they might have, and the remainder of my fee will be deposited once the job is completed.

  Evidence of findings are required.

  I nearly smirk at that line. How nice of them to doubt my skill set when they’ve clearly exhausted all other options. Because I’m the best, I’m either called in first—by those who know me well and with whom I’ve established a working relationship—or last.

  The latter is clearly the category the Dixie Mafia falls into. They prefer to clean up the messes themselves, keeping their circle tight.

  Steepling my fingers, I tap the tips of them together. Once. Twice.

  Addressing the men, I say, “You may go now.”

  Redneck Two sputters. “But are you gonna—”

  The other man grabs him by the collar of his shirt and tugs him out of his seat. “Let’s go.”

  He leads his dipshit friend toward the exit but turns to give me one last look. I stare back, knowing he can’t see my face or decipher my expression in the shadows.

  Once they’re gone, I escape into the night. Darkness is my friend, and the shadows, my saviors.

  It’s time to hunt.

  Over the years, I’ve become cauterized from within. I have no emotional state aside from anger when someone pisses me off or tries to kill me. Anything more is inconsequential. Unnecessary.

  When I kill, I don’t feel anything. No remorse. No dread. No guilt. Nothing.

  They call me The Hunter because it’s what I do best. I can find anyone, regardless of how hidden they may be. I find out what makes them tick, whatever their weaknesses and strengths are, and I study them.

  Along the outskirts of this town, I’ve secured space in what was formerly a small store turned into a loft-like apartment. Less than a thousand square feet, it’d been abandoned after sustaining flood damage, indicated by the water line stain along the outer concrete walls.

  This part of Wilmington, where it butts against Seaside Cove, is perfect. Low income and high crime rates with people who hate snitches eliminate any worries of nearby nosy neighbors reporting suspicious activity.

  From what I gleaned when I cased the joint, I’m surrounded by prostitutes, drug dealers, addicts, or simply families trying their best to get by. If anyone’s taken notice to me being here, they haven’t shown any interest. Then again, I suppose a part of the reason for that may be due to my new, intimidating roommate.

  The fucker just up and decided to move in, despite my repeated efforts to thwart him from doing so. I argued and locked him out multiple times. Threatened to skin him alive, not that I actually would, but it didn’t matter. It’s not like he gives a shit what I do or say.

  Tossing a glance at where he lies sprawled on the foot of my bed—on top of my suit jacket, no less—I glare at him with a muttered, “Asshole.”

  He lifts his head, tips it to the side, and I swear he gives me the trademark puppy-dog eyes.

  Damn thing showed up out of nowhere—no tags and badly in need of a bath and a meal. At least now he’s clean and his black fur isn’t matted down by whatever crap he’d rolled in. Though his damn ribs are still too prominent for my liking.

  Not that I’m keeping him. I don’t do attachments of any kind, even if he seems to share my aversion to people, judging by his lethal-sounding growl anytime someone walks along the sidewalk out front. But I should take him to a vet to see if he has a chip or something. Someone out there’s got to be missing him.

  “You could at least avoid wrinkling my clothing.”

  With a sigh that sounds far more human than I’d expect, he moves back on the bed to lie in the middle. Safely away from my jacket.

  I frown and force out a, “Thanks.”

  He makes a grumbling sound and settles his head back on his front paws to watch me work.

  My laptop sits on the desk with the encrypted files the Dixie Mafia sent over to me on display, the scant information and photos offering little to go on. No fingerprints have been found at the scenes. Not on the bullet casings or arrows.

  Arrows. What the fuck kind of joker uses arrows to take down members of a crime organization like the Dixie Mafia?

  Whoever’s behind this is good, but I’m better. I have to be. For more reasons than just for the sake of my reputation.

  I need to look into the local gangs, specifically the Blood Nation, one of the most notoriously violent gangs plaguing the city of Wilmington. They have more to gain than any of the other disorganized gangs in the area.

  Even though something in my gut tells me I’m barking up the wrong tree, I have to be thorough. Which is why I decide to also hack into the police department’s electronic file system to dig around for any related cases to the Dixie Mafia.

  Within a few minutes, I’ve jotted down a few notes on my legal pad, but something feels off. I strum the cap of my pen against the pad and squint at the screen. From my periphery, the dog jumps down from the bed and comes over to where I sit.

  I glance over and arch an eyebrow. He moves closer to my desk and sniffs at my paper where I jotted down a note about looking into Judge Milton’s cases. Even though I figure it’s a shot in the dark, I should look into it since the judge has been connected to cases brought against the Dixie Mafia multiple times.

  With a humorless smirk, I peer at the dog. “What? You have a thing for judges?” With a sigh, I’m about to dismiss it when something stops me. “What if there really is a connection to one of the judge’s cases?” I muse before turning back to the dog, eyeing him contemplatively. “If there is, I guess I owe you a name for your help, huh?”

  He gives a brief bark. Then I realize I’m talking to a damn dog.

  Fuck me.

  11

  The Hunter

  I sit in the corner of the living room, enshrouded in shadows, using them to my advantage. The telltale sound of a key unlocking the door greets my ears before the man’s heavy footsteps signal his entrance into the small house.

  He shuts and locks the door behind him and hangs his keys on the hook near where a jacket hangs. From the view I’m granted from here, I watch, gun in my hand, prepared.

  He steps through the doorway of the living room, and a split second after he begins unbuttoning the top of his button-down shirt, he freezes, finally sensing that he’s not alone. Tension, awareness, and fear are practically palpable, radiating from him in waves.

  It’s nearly imperceptible, but I’ve been doing this long enough to recognize it. “Don’t.”

  My command is simultaneously joined by a dog’s deep menacing growl, and his hand stops midair, inches away from the gun holstered at his hip.

  “Have a seat, Detective.”

  “Jesus Christ!” He peers at me as if it’ll allow him to see my shadowed face better from the ten feet separating us.

  “Have a seat,” I repeat.

  Face pinching in irritation, he narrows his eyes on the gun I have pointed at him. “Is that really necessary?”

  “You, of all people, should know it’s unwise to take chances.”

  A scowl mars his face, displeased with my response, but he lowers himself into the chair closest to him without tearing his eyes off me. Resting his hands on the armrests of the chair, he stares at me warily.

  “Relax.” The corners of
my mouth tip up in faint amusement. “I’m just here to talk.” I keep the gun trained on him because I didn’t get this good or far in this business by trusting easily, even with our history.

  He shoots an uneasy look at the canine. “What’s with the dog?”

  “Not a dog person, Warren?” I settle one palm on Kujo’s back, a single stroke of his fur in a silent command, telling him to relax.

  Yeah, I fucking named him since the stop at the vet was fruitless. No chip, no home. At least he’s flea- and heartworm-free. The only information I did gain, aside from a good bill of health, is that he’s a pit bull-boxer mix.

  He glares. “Since when are you?”

  Alerting anyone—even Warren—to the fact that I have an attachment is dangerous, so I switch gears.

  “Love what you’ve done with the place.” My toneless remark has him narrowing his eyes. The underlying sarcasm is obvious, especially while we sit in the bland, undecorated house.

  “My girlfriend moved out. Took most of her decorations with her,” he mutters. “Said I was already married to my job.” Features tight, eyes downcast, he pauses before letting out a sigh. “What is it?”

  “What do you know about the Dixie Mafia’s operations around here?”

  He makes a dismissive sound, shaking his head. “It’s only been shy of eight years now since they moved into this area. Wilmington’s proven a lot tougher for them to overrun. Thank fuck for that because of the influx of families and young professionals who’ve resisted them, but they still set up camp here. Being on the coast and having the port for easy access…” He trails off with a pointed look because, yeah, I know what he’s saying. Smuggling is easier when you’ve got at least some control over the port.

  “You already know they worked their way up the eastern coast of the Carolinas when they started getting too much attention from their operations on the Gulf Coast, and even the guys who were being paid off got nervous.

  “Rumor has it, Boyd’s become more secretive. Gone into hiding and won’t show his face to anyone, and neither will his second-in-command.” He tilts his hand, palm up in a Who knows? gesture. “Could be, he’s just paranoid as shit.”