by RC Boldt
I know what they see. A young girl, thin, not succeeding in hiding her large breasts in the simple, form-fitting sweater dress with three-quarter-length sleeves. The turtleneck collar is high enough to disguise most of my neck, and my long hair, straight and blond, hangs in a thick curtain past my shoulders.
The bruise on my cheek barely disguised by makeup is evident for all to see, as is my split lip. My blue eyes are accentuated with the careless swipe of dark blue shadow I’ve applied. The black boots that rise just past my knees highlight my tattered tights that’ve seen better days and leave a six-inch gap between the top of the boots and the hem of my dress.
Everything they see is fabricated. The hair, the bruise, the busted lip, eye color, breasts, and youthfulness. Before this life, I’d never known how easy it was to transform, to be a human chameleon, to be whatever you needed to be at the moment. A slump in posture and a limp can have more of an effect on the overall picture of what others perceive than the average person might realize.
It’s human nature to judge someone at surface value. To not look deeper than appearances. While some might take offense to that, I welcome it. It helps me hide in plain sight.
The man changes tactics. “What’s a pretty thing like you doin’ in here?”
I shrug without looking at him and answer with a slightly slurred tone, giving him the idea that I’m intoxicated. “Just needed a drink. Been a hell of a day.”
I sense him lean closer as he gestures to my face. “Tryin’ to get away from whoever did that to you?”
I duck my head enough to have my hair shifting and falling to act as a barrier, cutting off his view to my injuries. With a long sigh filled with desperation, I add softly, “I gotta find a place to live. And a job.”
“Darlin’, if it’s help you’re lookin’ for, then you’re in the right place.” He traces his fingertips along the back of my hand, dirt and grime caked beneath his nails, and I shiver in recoil. Of course, he interprets it as interest, and as goose bumps rise in the wake of his touch, he chuckles darkly. “Ahh, maybe you just need the right man to show you how things are done.”
When his fingers cinch my upper arm tightly, I purposely let out a gasp, shrinking from his touch.
He jerks me closer and speaks against my ear. “Yeah. I bet that pussy’s still young and tight, ain’t it?”
I let out a pathetic-sounding whimper. “Please don’t hurt me.”
The way his grip tightens confirms my assessment. He gets his rocks off on being rough and hurting women. If all that isn’t enough of a reason to gut him, his additional affinity for child pornography sure as hell is.
My fingers itch to reach for my knives and gut these damn bastards and ensure they never lay their filthy eyes or hands on another female again. Resisting the temptation is a challenge, and a part of my mind reverts to my early training.
“Patience. There are times when waiting for your opponent to move is necessary. To create an illusion that you’re afraid to take action. Their confidence can also be their greatest weakness. That is when you strike.”
Kru Namsaknoi taught me well, schooling me in much more than Muay Thai. He taught me lessons I knew would help guide me even in the most challenging times, instructed me on how to compartmentalize my thoughts and emotions to become what I am now.
A killer.
What he didn’t expand upon was filled in by his old friend, Noam, who trained me in Krav Maga.
“The most important and crucial strength lies within here”—Kru tapped a finger to the center of my chest before raising it to press it against my forehead—“and here.”
The trek from Wilmington to Thailand had been a harrowing experience, but it had brought me to two men who took an unfamiliar woman under their wings.
Each man had taken me in and become my instructor even though they’d long since retired. They’d given me a safe place to stay and had shown me how to catch fish in the most rudimentary ways, how to prepare foods foreign to me, and had filled a gaping hole inside me in ways I’d not thought possible.
“Billy.” The voice grows closer, sounding far too smooth to disguise the hidden danger beneath. “Now, you’re frightenin’ the poor girl.”
Billy relinquishes his hold on my arm once the other man approaches. Before he introduces himself, I already know what he’ll say.
“I’m Rex. And who might you be?” This man has a slick way about him, as though he’s striving to set a person at ease.
Except he’s not doing it for altruistic reasons. No, it’s far more nefarious than that.
When I dart a glance at Rex, my teeth nibbling my bottom lip in apparent nervousness, his eyes turn brighter with intent and arousal as he offers me his hand.
My motions tentative, I place my palm in his. It takes every ounce of restraint not to recoil from touching the man who’d been my lawyer at the preliminary trial.
The fucking man who’d failed me. Who’d failed to see that justice was served.
The man who failed my family.
“I’m Lizzy.”
Closing his fingers around my palm, he lifts it to press a kiss to the top of my hand. His eyes never stray from mine, and I’m grateful for my skill at applying liquid latex, especially since it’s now over each of my fingertips to ensure no prints can be traced back to me.
“It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Lizzy.” He raises his head, his gaze traveling over my body, assessing. Dirty bastard. “Why don’t we head to the back where it’s easier to talk?”
The back of the bar also houses a few small rooms all used for illegal and often vile purposes. I discovered this when I sneaked in through the back while barely anyone was around. I’d planted a tiny voice-activated USB bug in each of the back rooms. It’s helped me track when they’re planning to prep shipments at their money-laundering locations.
Plastic tarps lie at the ready beneath chairs in two of the other rooms while this one has a bed with video equipment poised to record the rape for later viewing pleasure.
Wide-eyed, I exhale a breathless, “O-okay,” and he helps me down from the stool, steadying me when I sway. Satisfaction gleams in his eyes at my apparent intoxicated state, and he guides me toward the dark hallway leading to the rear of the bar. I don’t miss the lift of his chin, silently directing Billy to follow us.
“We’re not to be disturbed,” Rex calls out, loud enough to be heard over the music blaring from the jukebox.
Anticipation strums through my veins, fueling my intent. As soon as he guides me inside the dingy room, he offers a smile that I’m sure is meant to be consoling. But it fails because I see him for what he is: the Big Bad Wolf dressed up as the grandmother. And I’m his Red Riding Hood. He’s licking his chops, biding his time before he devours me.
Billy closes the door behind him and leans against it, gripping my glass of whiskey in his hand. I take a nervous step away from Rex, regarding the bed warily.
Eyes wide, I look at Rex before darting an uneasy glance at Billy.
“No reason to be afraid.” Rex’s voice is low and calm, but I don’t miss the steely edge behind it. Taking a step toward me, he waves a hand at Billy, and the man approaches with the drink.
A drink I would bet my life has been drugged.
Rex grasps the glass and offers it to me with less than subtle urging. “Drink up, and you’ll feel better. I can help you, Lizzy.” His voice drops a decibel as he utters the barely disguised command. “But you’ll need to give me something in exchange.”
Those dark eyes bore into mine, waiting with anticipation gleaming in the depths. With a shy half smile, instead of accepting the glass, I wobble to the side before regaining my balance with a giggle. “Whoops.”
“Why don’t you relax?” Rex offers. “Get more comfortable, take some of those clothes off, and we’ll make you feel better.”
With a demure tone, I peer at the men and slowly reach for the hem of my dress. “I want you to make me feel…so much better.” I hi
ke up the fabric, inch by inch, gauging their reaction.
“That’s it,” Rex encourages, his eyes locked on me as I slowly reveal more bare flesh. Billy casually flicks a button on the device perched on a tripod a few feet away, assuming I won’t notice or care. But I’ve already planned for this. My face is turned away enough that it won’t be visible.
Oh, I want them to have this on video. I crave the moment the rest of them watch it. When they witness me killing two of their best men.
The instant my fingertips graze over the sheaths secured around my upper thighs, I pause as if I’m being coy with them.
“Oh, yeah,” Billy mutters, already gripping his erection through his pants.
“Don’t stop there.” Rex’s words are spoken with a hint of a threat even while his eyes gleam with lust.
While I carefully assess each man’s position, the distance between them and me as I grip my weapons, my mouth forms a small, shy smile. “But anticipation can be arousing.”
As soon as the words fall from my lips, I move, pelting the men in the throat with my throwing stars. The points pierce their windpipes, and they stumble back, clutching at their throats and slicing their hands in the process as blood pours from the wound.
Withdrawing my knife from where it’s safely hidden in its sheath inside my left boot, I make quick work of gutting them, watching as the life bleeds from their faces. In the background, the jukebox plays Toby Keith’s “I Love This Bar,” and patrons sing along so loudly, the walls seem to vibrate.
“This is for all the others. The innocence you stole.” I twist the knife in Rex’s abdomen before I lean down over his body, bringing my lips to his ear and whispering for only him to hear. “This is for my family.” Once I’m done with them, I stride over to the camera that’s recording. Standing directly beside it, I turn it so the view includes both bodies.
With a whisper of, “You’ll be next,” I press the button to end the recording and slink out the back exit.
22
The Hunter
“You’re not living up to your end of the bargain.” The man growls this like he’s delivering a fucking threat.
Calm and collected as always, I speak into the phone. “You asked me to find out who’s behind this. That’s what I’m working on.”
“It’s been over three fucking weeks, and we’ve lost more men! Why the fuck are you—”
“Hey, man. We got some news,” a man’s voice interrupts, sounding like it’s on an intercom, and the urgency in the man’s tone piques my curiosity.
“Hey, man.” The casual way he addressed the man who contacted me confirms what I suspected: this isn’t even the second-in-command. I’m still speaking with another damn lackey.
I store that piece of information away for later but plan to revisit why the Dixie Mafia leaders are hiding out these days. It’s odd and contrasts with how they’ve operated in years past.
“What is it?” the man on the phone mutters with irritation.
“Billy and Rex were found in the back of the Salty Crab.”
“So what?” Exasperation colors the man’s tone. “You interrupted to tell me my guys stopped for a fucking drink at a bar?!”
The other man practically stutters under the intensity of the tirade. “I mean that they found both of their bodies in the back. They’d gone in one of the rooms, and we wondered what was taking so long…”
Thick silence greets the explanation, and I’m already rising from my desk, ready to head out and take a look for myself.
“Tell your men to leave the room untouched,” I command. “I need to take a look first.” Without waiting for a response, I end the call and whistle for Kujo, and he trots over.
It’s time to figure out what’s going on with this clusterfuck of a situation. More curious is the fact that a few other members were at the bar, but these two—Billy and Rex—were known to have an affinity for rape and had spearheaded human trafficking for the Dixie Mafia.
These two pieces of shit were killed, and it’s not something I’m exactly heartbroken over.
I’d have loved to have done it myself, but taking the Dixie Mafia head-on like this is a death wish. Fuck, whoever did this has balls of steel.
Or they’re dumb as shit.
Soon, I’ll find out.
What the fuck?
I stare at the paused image on the camera. A fucking woman. You’ve got to be shitting me.
My mind is reeling because it’s clear she somehow knew the camera was recording. I can tell by the way she angles herself, the way her hair curtains to shield her face from view. I study the footage, waiting for a millisecond where she turns to show at least a side profile.
But it never happens. She’s good. She’s real good.
Her feigned intoxication, the sensual way she raised her dress up her long legs, how her muted voice said, “But anticipation can be arousing,” and the precise way she threw those ninja stars have an odd sense of intrigue rushing through me. I haven’t seen anyone use throwing stars since I was in Japan years ago.
Replaying the footage, I study her natural grace, and the ease in her movements tell me she’s familiar with killing. When she removes what I assumed to be another weapon from her left boot, I lean closer in an attempt to determine what it is, but shadows combined with how she angles her body and the way her hair falls forward prevent me from doing so.
A moment later, I watch while she uses it with the same skill as the ninja stars, her motions confident as she slices their bodies open.
A knife. Interesting.
Barely audible while she makes quick work of gutting the men, her voice is low, husky when she murmurs, “This is for all the others. The innocence you stole.”
Before she finishes them off, she lowers her face to whisper something to them that’s inaudible, her hair masking her like a full curtain. Still concealed by the angle and shadows, she returns the weapon to the inside of her boot. Then she tucks the throwing stars away once again before she strides toward the camera. Adjusting the angle to show the gutted men, she whispers, “You’ll be next.”
I steel my jaw and remove the camera from the tripod, tucking it in the inner pocket of my jacket. Exiting the room, I nod to the men standing in the hall, waiting expectantly.
“Tell your boss this’ll be handled shortly.”
23
Her
LATER THAT NIGHT
The release of killing is strange. It elicits odd and conflicting reactions from me, especially when I remove individuals who prey on innocent victims.
Relief. Pride. Satisfaction. Guilt.
The latter is not so much that I regret killing them. Hell no. It’s the weak moments at night when I allow myself to wonder what my family would think if they were to come back to me somehow. Would Willow shrink from me in fear? Would she think I was a monster now even though I’m avenging them by taking down the very group responsible for their deaths? Even when I’m preventing anyone else from becoming victims?
As best I can, I shove the guilt aside and relish in the former three emotions as I stroll through the doors of the small bar halfway across town. It’s the kind of bar where everyone used to joke that it’s so dark, with such poor lighting, that you’d think you’d met a stunner only to be in for a rude awakening in the light of day. But their beer is decent, and no one tends to bother anyone here.
Careful to stay in character, I walk slowly toward the table in the rear of the bar where the shadows seem thicker. Even though I’m here for a moment of downtime, I can’t take any chances that someone might recognize me.
A slight limp affects my gait, and thankfully, it’s not from a legitimate injury but to dissuade anyone discerning the security video footage. These days, the way a person walks is a trademark and can be used as a surveillance tracking tool. Which means I need to take extra precautions at all times.
With caramel brown hair extensions, the ends fall past my shoulders. An NC State ball cap is tugged low over the to
p of it, and my face now possesses a slightly wider nose, rounder cheeks, and fuller-looking lips thanks to the magic of makeup and liquid latex. The green-colored contact lenses behind wire-rimmed glasses have me looking nothing like the woman who left behind two bodies across town.
Dressed in simple jeans, a thick turtleneck sweater over my no-longer enhanced breasts, and wrapped in a thick black peacoat to ward off the chilly temps and even chillier winds, I approach my preferred table, ready to take the seat in the chair against the wall that affords me a view of the entire bar.
Except I realize too late that the seat’s been claimed by a man. I swivel on my heels to retreat just as he speaks.
“There’s plenty of room here if you’d care to join me.” The sound of his voice sends a foreign sense of arousal strumming through me. It holds a hoarse quality, and the sound skitters over my skin, leaving the sensation of a caress in its wake.
“No, thank you.” There are other places to sit, yet none of them offer the same quality as this particular table.
“Please?”
I pause, peering at him curiously, wishing the shadows would subside fully to grant me a clearer view of the man. He gestures to the empty table with three available chairs, and I notice his hands are calloused in contrast to the expensive and well-tailored black button-down shirt molding his broad chest beneath the unzipped leather jacket in the same color.
His clothing blends with the dark interior of the bar. Pulled down over his head is a sleek-looking beanie that appears to be cashmere, expensive, and matches his attire.
What I do know is he doesn’t fit in here, and for a split second, I wonder if he’s one of them. Mentally, I wrack my brain of all the research I’ve done, but I don’t recall anyone working for the Dixie Mafia who fits this man’s description. Still, I’d be stupid if I ignored the conflicting arousal and sense of foreboding battering away at me.
