Savage

by Tiana Laveen

  At least, if this is it, I met and found the love of my life…

  He smiled as he envisioned Zaire in his mind. He closed his eyes and kept her image close to his heart. He’d left a folded letter for her on the seat of one of his cars in the garage should he never be able to look into her eyes again. Moments later, he was back in the real world…

  He turned his burner phone off and took a deep breath. The filthy gas station bathroom he stood in smelled of vomit and a terrible case of the runs. The toilet was stopped up with a load of urine and shit in it from God knew how long. A trashcan was filled with rotting foods and used condoms, the base of the receptacle covered in sludge and piss from years of bodily fluids collecting around it. It was a hellhole, and it suited him just fine. The demon within him was itching to get out, scratching right below the surface. Maximus was disappearing, trading places with the monster known as Savage.

  It’s showtime, brother…

  He looked into the mirror, breathing slowly in and out. Thinking, scheming, planning…

  He’d found out not too long after accepting the assignment from Longhorn that the fucker had asked a couple other guys to do it after his initial refusal. So much for him being the one and only choice. They wouldn’t touch it. After he received the file, he realized why. The person in question was on their internal top ten of worst motherfuckers. He was being sent after a man by the name of Anthony Hickson.

  The FBI had been trailing the crazed lunatic for over two years. The twisted domestic terrorist was too cunning, too slick to be caught red handed while under surveillance. What some criminals possessed in physical brawn and agility, Mr. Hickson made up for in pure intellect. He’d always managed to get away and play it cool until the coast was clear, time after fucking time. He also knew his rights. No searches without warrants. Period. This cat and mouse game had gone on for far too long, and at this point, no one was interested in an arrest and trial. They wanted him dead.

  The bastard now lived cooped up in his deceased parents’ home—parents that the locals rumored were murdered by their one and only son. It had become a story like one of those creepy tall tales narrated around a campfire on Halloween night, but truth was, they weren’t too far off. The police believed he’d done the heinous deed, too, but with no evidence or bodies, they could do nothing about it. Perhaps the parents had gotten in the way by trying to intervene, to convince a mad man that he was not fit to continue living in his paranoid bubble. There were often consequences for forcing people such as Hickson into a corner.

  Zaire had almost gotten the horns for doing the same, but somehow, she’d convinced the Savage within him to stay low, to not come out and tango and fuck up the best thing he’d ever had.

  I guess we have a little in common, huh, Mr. Hickson?

  Hickson had been toying with the police, taunting them with his threatening electronic messages and hacking into their systems with his impressive computer skills. In fact, it was this talent that had landed him on their Hit List. First, he’d accessed top-secret, encrypted files and demanded millions in exchange for not sending sensitive information to the nation’s enemies, putting US national security on the line. Then, he’d also sent threats to several high-ranking government officials. Hickson was not only skilled in hacking, but he was also a talented explosives expert. He used his knowledge for evil, creating bombs and then keeping the authorities on their tiptoes by messing with the intricate software systems protected and used by the government.

  Clearly, this was nothing more than a game to Hickson, and he was growing bolder by the minute. Oftentimes, in cases of this nature, there would be two assassins assigned with the task of dealing with the problem, but Hickson had somehow discovered he was being followed by one of their own a year prior, and he’d blown the poor man to kingdom come. Proof had been hard to come by, but everyone knew he’d been the one to send the bomb to poor Patrick’s house in retribution. It had wiped out his entire family, including his mother who’d been there for a visit.

  If you were made, you had a small window to take a target such as Hickson down. If you missed that window, you could pretty much kiss your existence goodbye.

  Savage grabbed his briefcase and made his way out into the gas station parking lot. A few cars were parked there. A buzzing, flickering light caught his attention with a bunch of insects gathered around it. The annoying sound blended in with light chatter from right outside the storefront. Two intoxicated individuals stood there holding brown paper bags stuffed with cheap bottles of liquor and cigarettes in hand, eyeing him.

  “Got any money you can spare, chief?” one of them called out, a waif of a man with a long, pockmarked face that betrayed picked scars from meth use.

  “Nah, you get better, you hear?” Savage made a thorough inspection of his rental car, looking for any vermin hell bent on surprising him.

  “I’m tryin’ to… need money to do it… goin’ to the clinic.”

  “Ya know, druggies are the worst liars. I hate liars. I’m not giving you anything. You’ll spend it on that bullshit.” He rubbed a cloth along the front of the car, removing a smudge. “You’re going to be dead in a month. Get some help, and I’m not your chief.”

  “Fuck you!” the man responded, then started muttering under his breath.

  The sky darkened as the sun began to set over Minneapolis. Savage got in the car and made his way over to his destination. The traffic was rather light for a Friday night. He’d been in town for a little over twenty-four hours, getting his bearings and doing the pre-runs to scope out the target’s place of residence. Savage had performed some of his typical maneuvers, such as walking two different dogs past the hit’s home.

  The dogs were adopted from a local shelter and would be gifted to someone deserving after the venture. That was how the intelligence gathering worked. For now, the canines proved the perfect prop for him to get close enough to the house and get a better feel for the layout. The dogs’ collars contained a special signal that alerted Savage of crucial information, letting him know if any occupants were in the house by detecting warmth. It also identified metals that were commonly used in weaponry. The technology wasn’t flawless and still in the testing mode, but it was definitely helpful.

  He simply needed to get at least within fifty feet of the property to have a decent read. It would be a rough assessment, but still a good start. The animals at various intervals would snoop around in a yard nearby, or on the curb. The old school stakeout was never a good idea in such instances. Sitting outside of the house in a car with binoculars would be a dead giveaway. Guys like Hickson were old pros and would notice right away, seeing something like that as pure entertainment. In addition, with all of the cameras around the bastard’s house, he’d be made within five minutes.

  On foot was the way to go, in various disguises, never walking the exact same way, with the same dog or in the same getup. Savage was even able to alter his height and build by wearing shoes with lifts, or low sandals, hats, broad-shouldered jackets with extra shoulder pads, the works. He’d gotten pretty good with covering his facial hair, learning an amazing trick to do such from a drag queen in Vegas. It took forever but was well worth it. He’d learned during training a long time ago, the wigs had to be high quality, made with real human hair and never synthetic. The idea was to look the part and blend in with the surroundings.

  He never looked directly at the house while in front of it, and always pretended to be preoccupied with the dogs, on his phone, jogging, carrying shopping bags from the nearby convenience store, or engaged in some other normal activity as a passerby.

  Night fell and Savage sat in the vehicle, drumming his hands against the steering wheel of the rental car parked two blocks away from the target’s home.

  He started the countdown in his head, feeling a rush of excitement. From the research, it appeared Hickson rarely came out of his house. He was a hermit, unhinged, delusional and paranoid. His anti-government sentiments would only have worsened
his condition, and his level of genius denoted a sick mind. He was also a stealthy killer with at least five murders under his belt, had an unhealthy obsession with dissection of furry creatures. A textbook killer—he’d been known to hurt animals since he was a child. Savage couldn’t call Harlem for any insight; no one should know he was there until the job was complete. Not even Longhorn was privy to his schedule. He was on his own.

  He removed several guns and two blades from his briefcase, strapping them to his body in various locations. Beneath his hoodie he wore a bullet proof vest and inside his black Reebok sneakers he’d put a couple additional blades. Placing his hood over a black baseball cap, he began a slow sprint, as if he were taking an evening jog around the neighborhood. The wind blustered—not the sort of thing he enjoyed after being spoiled by California sun rays, but the chill kept his senses heightened, so he couldn’t complain. He listened to his own breathing, falling into a rhythm, then turned his earbuds on, soothed by the sounds of, ‘Psycho Killer’ by the Talking Heads at high volume.

  His heart pumped faster…

  His mouth pooled with saliva like a monstrous beast on the hunt for hot prey…

  His feet pounded against the concrete, all of his weight slapping along the ceiling of Hell as he drew closer to the house of cards…

  He fisted his hands, tight-knuckled, then released, then fisted them again, hungry to wrap them around a fucker’s throat and squeeze or slice another tongue…

  Stealing someone’s voice was one of his favorite maneuvers, one of many reasons why Longhorn abhorred him, stating it was overkill. But oh, how wrong Longhorn was. Stealing one’s voice, removing their tongue, was power. No talking… Shhhh… Die in bloody silence. People knew it had been a ‘Savage kill’ for certain when he got that fucking tongue.

  Flashes of the members of Dad’s motorcycle club pulling into the house one summer, fifty deep, entered his mind as he kept moving, sprinting slowly along… music still blasting…

  He couldn’t have been more than ten when it had happened, and he’d been mesmerized. Dad had been clad in all leather, gun in hand. They’d all parked their bikes along the road. Dad’s long blond hair had waved in the wind as he’d approached, a big ass smile on his face. The big man had stood tall, leading his brethren into his modest home for supper, good times and drinks. They’d just attended a funeral of one of the Outlaw One-Percenter fallen soldiers, a dude by the name of Easy Bee. His other friend, the now deceased Crazy T-Bone, had been right by Dad’s side. Crazy T-Bone had shoulder length black hair, a thick scar that ran the length of his chin, and dancing, bright blue eyes. He’d been stocky and muscular as fuck, garnering respect, just like Dad, but known to be a loose cannon. In the fucker’s gloved palm he’d glimpsed something pink and slimy—a tongue. He’d cut some bastard’s tongue out for calling him a motherfucker, allegedly one of the Hell’s Angels…

  Savage had never been the same after that. That scene had indelibly marked him, tattooed his soul…

  He tossed the thoughts out of his mind, for they’d obliged their purpose… fed his monster a hearty dose of delightful dysfunction served piping hot.

  Hickson, what’s for dinner tonight? I’m coming to eat…

  He fell in love with the chase…

  Run, run, run…

  Savage is comin’ for you…

  And there’s not a damn thing

  You can do.

  Run, run, run…

  The big bad wolf wants prey…

  He’ll huff, and he’ll puff

  And he’ll blow you away…

  His body turned into an inferno, his chest heaved, eyes burning with bloodlust as he spotted the house in the near distance. The song ended just in time. Turning off the music, he set his plan in motion. The air smelled like a twisted Autumn—burnt leaves, a dull sweetness reminiscent of rotting apples, and the pending stench of death.

  Savage walked right past the house until he’d gotten past the camera’s view. Like the damn pro that he was, he circumvented the house’s alarm system with an electronic signal that disabled it with the push of a button. The homeowner seldom realized this until it was far too late. On their end, everything would look fine, but if a window was opened, a door cracked, the alarm would not beep or blast. Sizing up the area, he cut into the back of a neighboring yard, and crawled on his hands and feet towards Hickson’s small backyard. He noticed two motion detectors. Moving at a snail’s pace, not his typical fast ‘grab and go’ style and making no sudden movements, he made it to the far side of the property, just out of reach of the motion detectors. He slid right beneath them, in the blind spot, staying low until he was past them completely. That was the thing about these contraptions; there was always a blind spot. A professional could figure out how to spot them. He cut the wire of the one closest to the door once he’d managed to maneuver around it.

  Time for the next phase of the operation.

  Sliding up the steps, staying as low to the ground as possible, he reached the back door. Down on all fours, he removed a laser beam glass cutter from his sock and carefully cut through the window of the ratty and splintered white painted door. Keeping his gloved hand pressed against it to catch the pane once it was completely dislodged, he watched his footing, too. He’d done this operation countless times before, but this time he knew there would be no second chances should he fuck up. He smiled to himself as the pane came undone like a dream, and he softly placed it down onto the neighboring grass.

  Crisscrossing his arms over his chest like a mummy in a pharaoh’s tomb, he twisted his body and climbed through the narrow window, using his legs for leverage, and gritting through the pain when a jagged piece of wood scraped his shoulder, drawing blood. Once he was inside, he got his bearings. A horrid stench hit his nostrils immediately. It was pitch black inside, but he could tell it was the kitchen. An old stove and refrigerator stood in the cramped room. Pulling down a mask over his head that he’d tucked in the hat, he crept on. The muted sounds of a television came from an upstairs area—he presumed a bedroom based on the blueprint he’d seen of the property.

  Placing the infrared scope light goggles over his eyes, he navigated slowly out of the kitchen. He now stood in a small living room that smelled of rotting flesh, the odor more pronounced with each step. Upon further inspection, he noted several dead cats and squirrels in various stages of decomposition, all of them laid out on silver medical trays alongside blood-tinged scissors and knives. He watched his step as he pulled out his SilencerCo Maxim 9 equipped with an optic.

  Slowly rounding the corner, he saw the staircase. He was once again hit with the overwhelming odor of physical deterioration. He’d investigate that when time permitted. He assessed the area, watching his breathing, careful to not make any unnecessary moves. Just as he suspected, there was another motion detector light placed in a corner of the room. The alarm was disabled, but knowing Hickson, he had a back-up plan for his back-up plans. Any hit tripped out on the heavy dose of paranoia often went overboard with such things, especially since he knew the FBI was after him. Savage dropped down to the floor and slid against the wall along the blind spot. Careful… careful… done.

  He stared at the staircase. It was a fucking nightmare. There was barely any light. He suspected the man hadn’t paid the light bill and had rigged the electricity that did exist in the house. Grateful for his night vision goggles, he noticed old newspapers and magazines strewn along the steps, along with debris such as paper cups, ripped pieces of paper, and old potato chip bags.

  There’s no way I can use these steps without making a bunch of noise. They’re like a booby trap. There’s shit everywhere. Not only that, they look old… they’ll crack under my weight. But the banister…

  He edged up to the second floor on top of the thing, inch by inch. Upstairs, he spotted two more motion detectors.

  Fuck. Here we go again.

  Back pressed firmly against the wall, arms and hands spread out along his sides and his gut sucked in
, he made it past the first blind spot. The sound of the television grew louder, and the bedroom door was slightly ajar. He could see the light from the screen, as well as several computer monitors sitting side by side.

  Then, he paused, his heart skipping a beat. He could’ve sworn he heard movement. It could’ve been an animal, or it could be… Shit.

  Something isn’t right. I need to get out of this hallway.

  Trusting his instincts that had yet to fail him, Savage gently tugged on a doorknob close by, praying he wasn’t about the enter an area that would throw the entire operation off. He carefully opened the door and slipped into a dark room that smelled musty and dank. He could hear water dripping, likely from a faucet.

  Bathroom. I’m in a bathroom.

  Soon, he heard heavy footsteps approach and quickly stepped out of view, hiding in a narrow space barely big enough for a few brooms. It was dark and tight and gave an unspectacular view, but it would simply have to do. The bathroom door creaked opened and the light switch was flipped. Standing about six foot two and thin as a rail, Hickson made his way inside, his skin covered in prominent blue veins that practically pulsed under his pale flesh. He wore only a pair of white briefs, and they seemed two sizes too big. Savage knew not to mistake his scrawny frame for weakness, though. Others had done the same and lived to regret it.

  It had already been noted that he was physically strong, and had no issue overpowering men much larger than himself. There had been fights with security guards in stores, an incident at a strip club, and a laundry list of run-ins that proved mental illness gave some dudes the strength of a million men. The guy flipped up the toilet lid and began to piss. Savage didn’t move a muscle. His eyes narrowed on a dead dog’s carcass which lay in the filthy tub along with several cups and baggies filled with what appeared to be coagulated blood, pieces of bone, teeth, and fur. The distinct scent of embalming fluid stung his nostrils, blending in with the sickeningly sweet bouquet of decay. Savage took a deep breath and counted to three in his head as he placed his gun on his hip…