The rat-tat-tat of the Avenger’s fingers did a drumbeat with the rap song blaring from his radio as he drove to the street where the Covingtons lived. If he was lucky, he’d see police cars and fire trucks there with ambulances, just like he’d seen at the murder scene. He loved the power. He, alone, had caused all this commotion, and had police teams dispatched to two separate areas on the same morning.
And they didn’t yet know the half of it. As he drove, he imagined the pain Emily was suffering. Possible burns on her lovely, fair skin. The disfigurement of that pretty face of hers. The fear that he would be back . . .
He felt a thrill as he turned onto her street and saw two police cars and a fire truck lined up out front. He laughed and turned the music down so he wouldn’t call attention to himself. Shoving on sunglasses so he wouldn’t be recognized, he drove by at a normal speed.
Emily stood in the front yard with foam on the ground near her like newly fallen snow. She wasn’t harmed at all. Clearly, they’d put the fire out before anyone got hurt.
Okay. That was fine. The bomb had worked, anyway.
He tried to think what would happen now. They wouldn’t be able to trace the bomb back to him. He’d been careful to avoid leaving fingerprints. It was just a bottle, gasoline, duct tape, and an electrical cord. Nothing that could identify him.
Emily would be paranoid now, constantly looking over her shoulder, fearing whoever was trying to kill her. And that was what he wanted. She and her sweet little family would be living in fear.
He’d enjoy playing with them for a while before he finally ended it.
Laughing aloud, he ramped his music back up, drove a few miles away, then pulled into an alley and snorted a line. He was superhuman, in control, sovereign over his subjects. Invincible and unstoppable. He hadn’t slept in two days — not since he’d declared his freedom — and didn’t remember when he’d last eaten. He didn’t require what ordinary mortals needed to survive.
Life had never been more fun.